Ave Atque Vale
by RandiGirl17
Summary: Not only has Alexander Lightwood been selected as a tribute for the Trial of the Angel, but so has his sister, Isabelle. His struggle is not only contained to keeping himself alive, but to protect his sibling at all costs. To do this, Alec will need to summon faith in himself, find potential allies in enemies, and, above all, fight until his very last breath.
1. Chapter 1

_**Hey, readers! I've decided to take my first shot at a crossover. Please note that there will be no Hunger Games characters in this short story, and forgive any HG errors I might make. This has been rated M just in case. Incoming Malec! I haven't read the books in a while. I hope you all find it intriguing. I know I'm quite out of practice. My skills are terribly rusty. I've still got Survival on the go, and I do intend to finish it. Just having a little trouble getting back into the groove. Anyway, please enjoy the first chapter! Happy reading!**_

* * *

I'm standing in front of the mirror, staring back at my wide-eyed reflection. My hands have finally stopped shaking; in fact, I haven't moved at all for the past while. My feet are frozen to the floor, and I can't bear the thought of them thawing because that would mean I'd be forced to turn away from my reflection and face a darker, more sinister, entity: Reaping Day.

I shouldn't be so nervous; I know for a fact that a handful of other kids my age have had their names entered nearly triple the amount of times mine has. I've never bartered, I've never broken the law, but I have done everything in my power to keep the number of tiny slips of paper bearing my name to the bare minimum. Skipping a meal instead of buying rations from the Gard sure feels more satisfying on Reaping Day.

And yet, it still took me three attempts to correctly align the buttons on my shirt with their corresponding holes.

There's a knock at the door, and I take a few more precious seconds to look over myself. My normally milky-white skin is slightly pink from scrubbing away the dirt too hard. My not-yet-dry hair is slicked back neatly, revealing too much of my face for my liking. My cheekbones and jaw are too sharp, too prominent. Since last year, I've broadened in the shoulders and gained some muscle, which makes my pale blue button down strain slightly against my body. I'll have to find a way to collect enough money to buy a new shirt for next year. Maybe, if I have enough money, I'll splurge and purchase something nice, something not threadbare and itchy. It'll be a special occasion, anyway. Next year is the final year my name will be entered into the Trial of the Angels.

My family is waiting for me in the small dining area of our home. My mother and my younger sister, Isabelle, are nearly identical in gray-blue dresses with short sleeves. The only difference between them is that Isabelle's hair hangs in a single braid down her back, while my mother's hair falls over her shoulders in black curtains. My father is staring at me, his arms crossed and his eyes scrutinizing every inch of me. He takes a step forward, his hand outstretched, and for a moment I think he is going to clap me on the shoulder and say something endearing. But instead, he picks at the sleeve of my shirt and says, "Your shirt is wrinkled."

I can't say I'm particularly surprised by the comment, nor am I hurt by it. The softest parts of his heart have been reserved for Isabelle and my mother; the leftover bits of stone are mine for the taking. After seventeen years I've come to terms with it. Even if he is always callous and stoic, I know that my father is terrified. Because he has children, the Trials have become a nightmare for him once again. The only way to fight the fear is with control, and I was just the unfortunate outlet he chose to enforce said control upon. I think he traded his influence over Isabelle for affection a few years after she was born. He knew she'd disobey him, challenge him at every opportunity. I was much more submissive. I let him criticize me and question me and put me down because I know he's scared _for_ me. Under his controlling demeanour there's fear, and underlying that fear is love.

"Seventeen years old," my father goes on, "and you can't even keep your damn shirt neatly pressed."

"Robert," my mother chides softly. She wraps her arm around Isabelle's slight shoulders. "Come on. We don't want to be late."

As a family we shuffle out of the house and head for the square, a small clearing in District Twelve surrounded by shops. Since attendance is mandatory for every civilian with a beating heart, the shops will be closed until after the ceremony. We close in behind other people en route to the square. There are numerous families, like us, as well as clusters of two: couples without children, and the occasional lone individual: mostly the elderly.

Our parents separate from us at the end of a long line of children and teenagers. My mother wraps Isabelle in a tight embrace and holds her daughter's face in her hands. I notice there are tears pooling in my mother's eyes. This happens every year, but never once has she assured us it's going to be all right. Because how could she lie to her children? For my mother, controlling the fear meant acknowledging it. She never warned us that this could be the year one of us would be chosen, but she never gave us the false hope of immunity.

It's my turn next: My mother cups my cheek in her palm and gives me a timid, wavering smile, then she steps back without saying anything. My father has already hugged Isabelle, and now his arm is around my mother's waist as he stares down at me, his eyes narrowed. He gives the slightest inclination of his head before the two of them turn away and head towards the section of other adults.

Isabelle looks up at me as we fall into step behind the quickly-moving line. "Are you nervous?"

"No," I lie.

"I hear they feed you really well if you're chosen."

She's trying to make light of the situation, but my hands are already shaking again. "Isabelle, that's not funny."

"Alexander, you have a very poor sense of humor."

We're drawing steadily closer to the sign-in table. Every step makes me want to turn and make a run for it, but there's nowhere to escape to. Electrified fence on one side, a long and wide open road on the other. The Gard would catch me eventually and I'd be imprisoned or sentenced to death. Or worse, automatically thrown into the Trials.

"I'm not scared," Isabelle states, like she's telling me the sky is blue.

I glance down at her. "And what if they pick your name?"

Isabelle twists as she flounces up to the sign-in table and the skirts of her dress blossoms out from her thighs. "I'll win. Because I am a badass."

The Gard sitting behind the table cocks an eyebrow at my sister before extending her hand. Isabelle lets the woman take a blood sample and then stands aside to wait for me after she's dismissed with a flick of the Gard's wrist. Together we walk to the centre of the square. A stage has been set up in front of the shops, complete with a projection screen that will display the routine video that is played every year. There are two sections of people in front of the stage: Boys off to the left and girls on the right. Isabelle gives my hand a tight squeeze before we part and join our respective groups.

There are five people sitting in chairs on the stage. One of them is our mayor; the others I do not recognize but whom I suspect are from the Capitol. We stand, the square eerily quiet as we wait for the ceremony to begin. An even deeper silence falls through the square, as if the earth itself were holding her breath, as Imogen Whitelaw appears on the stage.

Imogen Whitelaw was chosen as District Twelve's escort a few years ago, after our previous representative resigned. From what I could see then, she did not appear to be a very pleasant woman. And she hasn't appeared to have changed. Her mouth is twisted into a grimace-frown hybrid, and her nose is wrinkled, as if she can smell a particularly pungent stench. She wears a dress so silver it's nearly metallic, casting off a deadly glare in the sun. Every bare inch of her skin is covered in glitter, and her blond hair is twisted into an elegant knot behind her head. Surprisingly, she wears little makeup. Uncommon for Capitol citizens.

A man carries a microphone stand to centre stage for her, and two waist-high podiums are erected on either side of her. Placed on the podiums are glass bowels, and inside the bowls are puddles of paper slips, each one bearing the name of a child standing in the square.

Imogen taps on the microphone with a slender finger and feedback rings through all of District Twelve. "Welcome to the seventy-fourth Trial of the Angels. _Ave atque vale_ ," she announces, unenthusiastically. "The ceremony will begin after a brief message from the Capitol."

All eyes turn to the projection screen. The Clave's symbol appears as the anthem begins to play: Four interlocking _C_ s on a shield, with two angel's wings fanning out of either side of the crest. A voice booms through the speakers, reiterating the story of the Circle, a group of people who rebelled against the Clave, obliterating the peace and order between the Districts. After a long battle, the Circle was defeated by the Capitol. The Clave believed punishment could only be handed down by a higher power, so the Trial of the Angels was created. The founding members of the Circle, twelve men and twelve women, were placed in an arena and forced to battle to the death. Only one person would survive, one person worthy of the protection and mercy of the angels. To keep the memory of the defeat alive and to desist any further rebellion, the tradition of the Trial was continued. All Twelve Districts would participate, and one child between twelve and eighteen years of age would emerge victorious. We were not to forget the forgiveness and the glory of the angels, and to be selected for the Trial was an honor, because in victory a tribute was blessed and in death a tribute was received by the angels themselves.

I laugh under my breath at the last part of the film. How is it possible to be welcomed into the arms of the angels when, as far as I'm concerned, murdering people buys you a one way ticket straight into the devil's clutches?

Imogen's narrowed eyes scan the square. "Let's begin, shall we? Ladies first." She moves across the stage to the glass bowl on her left. With a look of pinched boredom, she reaches into the bowl, digs around for a minute, and withdraws her hand. One slip of paper is pinioned between her index and middle fingers. She takes her time unfolding it and staring at the name.

I'm bouncing on the balls of my feet, waiting anxiously. My finger has begun to bleed again from where the Gard took a sample. Without thinking of the repercussions my father will bestow on me, I wipe the blood on my pants.

Imogen clears her throat and reads clearly into the microphone: "Isabelle Lightwood."

My jaw falls open and a loud breath rushes out of my lungs as if I've just been punched. Some boys around me cast glances in my direction as I stumble slightly. Some looks are sympathetic, others are stern. I shove my way through the crowd to the walkway in the centre of the square. Isabelle is already past me by the time I get there. She climbs the stairs to the stage and stands at Imogen's side. Her shoulders are back and her chin is held high. Even from a distance I can see that her jaw is clenched. She's trying not to let her lip quiver. My head whips around to find my parents, but some taller boys are obstructing my view.

"Moving on to the men," Imogen announces. I hear her heels clack across the stage and the muffled whispers of the papers as her hand delves through them. Too soon she's back at the microphone and revealing the next name. I don't hear her voice over the pounding of blood in my ears, but I see Isabelle's eyes whip across the crowd until coming to rest on me. When I meet her gaze, I see fear in the dark irises. Imogen repeats the name but again I do not hear her. The sounds in my ears are muffled and the ground is swaying beneath me.

Suddenly I am very aware of multiple gazes on me. My vision and hearing sharpen all at once and I hear Imogen very clearly on her third attempt.

"Alexander Lightwood. Please come forward."

I'm frozen again, the same way I had been this morning. Fear has paralyzed my body; I'm no longer carrying fear for just Isabelle, but for myself as well. My heart knows it. My brain knows it. My soul knows it. I am going to die.

In the corner of my vision, I catch several of the Gard moving forward, hands on their guns. If I don't move now, they're going to drag me onto the stage themselves. With one last shaky breath, I step out onto the pathway and start my walk up to the stage. It seems to last an eternity. With every step, the word 'death' pounds in my ears. I can feel too many eyes stabbing into my back like spears. I finally make it to Imogen's side and look out at everyone, struggling to keep my emotions hidden. The audience looks particularly grim. From my vantage point I can see a lot of relieved faces as well as empathetic ones. It is a tragedy for a parent's child to be chosen for the Trial, but to lose _two_ children in the same match? Not only that, but to have them pitted against each other for victory?

The Clave claims this as an act of the angels. But hell has surfaced in District Twelve today.

Someone is sobbing near the back of the square. I follow the sound until my eyes come to rest on my parents. My mother is crying, one hand trying to hold back the anguish escaping her lips. My father is gripping her left shoulder and her right arm, but I can't tell if he's holding my mother in place or clutching her in search of his own comfort. He is tight-lipped and refuses to look up at us, at his own two children.

Imogen spreads her arms wide and proclaims, "I am pleased to present District Twelve's tributes for the seventy-fourth annual Trial of the Angel."

There is no applause, only a symphony of silence and sullen faces. I'm still watching my parents when Imogen Whitelaw's hand wraps around my wrist and tugs me off the stage. Isabelle and I are escorted to a small private building, where we are separated into two rooms. My stomach is in knots and my fingernail is between my teeth as I anxiously pace the tight confines of the space. There are chairs and a table in the corner, but I know that if I sit down I will not be able to stand again.

After a long while, the door opens and my mother and father enter. Just before the door closes I see the shoulders of a Gard keeping watch outside the room. I am not only helpless but I am trapped. Suddenly it is very hard to breathe. The air inside the room is somehow both too thick and too thin.

I find my face cradled in my mother's hands, her dark eyes holding mine steadily. Hers are red from crying, but the tears have been wiped dry from her cheeks. "Don't panic, Alexander," she whispers. "You have to be strong. You have to be strong for your sister."

I search her face. My alarm has subsided, and my ears are straining for the words I desperately need to hear. But she never says them. She gives my cheek an affectionate pat and steps away. My father approaches and now I hold my breath. Of all people, my father is the only one I'd believe if he told me I could win. His approval is the weapon I need. All I need to hear from him is that he loves me. At the very least, that he believes in me.

Robert Lightwood smoothes the wrinkle in my sleeve, but he does not let his hand linger. He stares down at me, his eyes so hard I almost flinch, and he says roughly, "Don't disappoint us."

The two of them turn away and knock on the door. It opens and my mother slips out of the room, but my father remains behind. He has one foot in the hall when he turns and mutters, "Get that blood off your pants." And then he leaves, closing the door softly behind him.

I stare at the closed door for a long while, too stunned to do anything. By not saying the truth out loud, they have made it very clear: My parents want Isabelle to win. I'm supposed to do everything in my power to protect her. If I die before her, I'll have disappointed my parents. If I die after her, I'll have disappointed my parents.

I cannot win. Not the Trial. Not my parents' love.

I cannot win.

My knees give out beneath me and I crumple to the floor. My breaths escape my lungs in short, harsh wheezes, but beneath them I can hear Imogen's words rumbling in my head: _Ave atque vale._

 _Hail, and farewell._


	2. Identity

_**Hi, everyone! I'm so so sorry for the delay. I'm losing my touch. But I recently had an onslaught of ideas for this story and just HAD to write. I can't guarantee when the next chapter will be posted, but I promise you that Magnus will be making a significant appearance! Happy reading, friends!**_

* * *

I'm on a train, but I have no recollection on how I'd gotten here. Isabelle is seated in a chair next to me, her hand gently patting my wrist. She has taken her hair out of its braid and the wavy tendrils flow over her shoulders. Her head is turned, staring out the window; there isn't much to see, only a whirl of blurring colors. It doesn't feel as though the train is travelling fast, though the view suggests otherwise.

I shift in my chair to look around and my movement catches Isabelle's attention. Her hard gaze softens when her eyes meet mine. The tight line of her jaw suggests she's been thinking; Isabelle's features had a way of hardening when she was mulling thoughts over in her mind.

"How are you feeling?" she asks.

My gaze travels over the entire car, catching here and there on expensive-looking furniture and sparkling crystalline dishware. My mouth gapes open at the sight of the chandelier hanging above us, barely swaying. There are many things I'd like to say, particularly about the excessive decorations, but I am too aware that Isabelle and I are alone in the train car.

"Where is Imogen Whitelaw?"

Isabelle jerks her thumb over her shoulder. "She went to go find Hodge Starkweather. I'm starting to wonder if he squeezed out of one of these windows. She's been gone a long time and I know there aren't _that_ many cars to be searched."

Right on cue, the door at the rear of the car silently slides open and Imogen Whitelaw ambles inside. She is wearing ridiculously high heeled shoes, and they clop against the carpet as she strolls by us. A long sigh escapes her as she seats herself in the chair across from Isabelle. Without a word, she pulls a nail file out of her pocket and sets to work sliding it against the ends of her fingers. She crosses one knee over the other and angles them toward the side so the miniscule dustings avoid spilling onto her clothes and instead drift leisurely to the floor.

"So where is he?" Isabelle demands.

Imogen's eyes remain on her filing. "He's on his way."

I lean forward, my elbows on my knees. "How did you even get him out of his house?"

That catches the woman's attention. She stops mid-manicure and lifts her eyes to meet mine. Her irises match her dress: gray and cold. "We quite literally dragged him out of his home, kicking and screaming. Our tributes need a mentor; we do what is necessary."

I glare at her. She says this as though she has given us the greatest gift in the world at her expense, as though she hasn't already handed us our death sentence. Before I can bite out a sharp retort, the door behind us slides open again. A man cautiously shuffles into the room. His shoulders are hunched and he continuously rubs his hands over each other. There are shadows under his eyes, and his unshaven face is sunken in. My stomach drops at the sight of our mentor. I'd heard enough stories about Hodge Starkweather to have an idea of what to expect, but seeing him now only makes me that much more certain about my probable fate. It was as though I was starving and someone had handed me a bone: There was a sliver of hope, but in the end it was only prolonged suffering.

"Come, come, Starkweather," Imogen hollers impatiently. "They're only children, they don't bite."

Hodge's nervous eyes flick over to the woman. "You have no idea what children are capable of."

Imogen must not feel the same chill that creeps down my spine, for she only rolls her eyes and sets back to work on her nails. My sister and I share a look as Hodge slowly shuffles over to the seat opposite mine. He settles into the cushion, curling in on himself and glancing around nervously. In that moment, there is the tiniest spark of uncertainty in my heart. Do I really want to survive the Trial if this is what is to become of me?

"Is it true that you get little kids to deliver stuff to your house?" Isabelle questions Hodge.

" _Isabelle_!" I hiss.

"What?" she says innocently. "I'm breaking the ice."

"More like waving a sharpened icicle around like a wild woman."

"Good practice for what's to come, I suppose."

"I beg your pardon," Hodge interrupts, "but can we move this along? I'd like to go back to my room as soon as possible. I don't believe I know your names."

"You didn't attend the ceremony?" Isabelle asks. When Hodge shakes his head she puts her hand on her chest. "I'm Isabelle, and that's Alec."

Hodge's edgy eyes flit back and forth between the two of us. "Do you two know each other?"

"We're siblings," Isabelle answers for me.

"By the Angel. Brother and sister in the same trial? I don't believe that's ever happened before." He looks to Imogen for confirmation, but she is otherwise occupied and actively ignoring him. He amends, "At least, not to my knowledge."

"Lucky us. We like to make an entrance," Isabelle mutters. "Listen, Mr. Starkweather, I don't see how a man too petrified to leave his house is going to be of much use to us. No offense, but you're past your prime."

I cut in, "Give him a chance—"

"No." Hodge lifts a hand, halting my words. "Your sister is right. I am of no use to you. I will give you the rundown of the ceremonial events to take place, and then I will leave you in the capable hands of Ms. Whitelaw and the team of trainers waiting for you in the Capitol. They will make sure you obtain the basic but essential survival and combat skills. The rest is up to you, I'm afraid."

There is a long, hushed moment before I gather the courage to whisper, "Mr. Starkweather, how did you win the Trial?"

The man stares at me with vacant eyes. "No one ever wins."

Sensing my unease, Isabelle clears her throat. "What's first on the agenda?"

"You will be taken to Tribute Square, located in the centre of the Capitol. There are thirteen Institutes, one for each of the Districts and one communal Institute. Tonight you will settle into your Institute. Tomorrow you will spend the day creating your image, and tomorrow evening is the Night of Ascension. Remember that the images of all the tributes will be ranked according to the votes of the people. The higher your rank, the better your survival kit, meaning the greater your popularity, the more supplies they will give you when you enter the arena."

"So your chances of survival depend on how attractive you look?" I scoff. "Why is vanity such a significant contender in the Trial?"

"It carries the tradition of the people before us, the ones who used to paint depictions of angels. The better the painting, the stronger the emotion behind the viewer. The stronger the emotion, the stronger the life of the artwork. Do you see? The more you are loved, the stronger your hope for survival."

"Is your image the only way to gain supplies?" Isabelle asks.

"Your trainers will be grading how well you do in the exercise sessions. They will determine what you need most to survive. Keep in mind that sometimes a blanket and a box of matches can be more useful than two knives."

"I thought tributes weren't given weapons in their survival kits."

"They aren't. My point is that when the Trial begins, you and your kit should be racing for shelter. Avoid the Cornucopia at all costs. You might get lucky and find trapping materials in your kit. Use that to get a weapon."

Isabelle barks out a humorless laugh. "You've got to be kidding me. You seriously expect us to survive by hiding behind pitiful traps? We'll be stabbed to death or shot first. Seriously, how are you even alive right now?"

Hodge looks at the carpet as if it is the most fascinating thing in the world. "I think that will be all for today." He hurriedly gets to his feet and trudges over to the door. It slides open and he hastily makes his escape.

I turn to my sister. Her jaw is set again, her eyes distant in thought. I let her be, not wanting to interrupt her reflection. As we sit in silence, I try to remember how our mentor had won the Trial. His victory obviously was not remarkable, otherwise it would have been memorable. This does give me hope, however; if someone like Hodge can win the Trial, it is very possible that I can stay alive long enough to make sure my sister wins.

Imogen pockets her nail file and stands. "I don't know about you two, but I need a drink."

* * *

Hodge had not been very descriptive of Tribute Square, and I find myself overwhelmed by the sight when we finally arrive. Tribute Square is composed of three massive blocks. There are six Institutes on the left and six more on the right. Straight ahead is a gigantic, single Institute, dominating the entire block all on its own. There is a large number, painted in shiny gold, posted on each Institute, except for the largest one, which has " _Ave atque vale"_ written above the colossal doors. That is the communal Institute, where we will meet the other tributes tomorrow night. I feel small and insignificant just staring at it.

Our Institute is right next door to the communal one, directly across the street from District Six's. An elegant carriage being pulled by sleek black horses had awaited our arrival at the train station. We'd been escorted by Peacekeepers through a throng of overly-excited Capitol citizens. Those strangers had shouted mine and Isabelle's names, waving their gloved and glittered hands, flashing too-bright smiles, and winking eyes heavily shadowed in neon colors. There is a crowd of onlookers calling out our names as we step out of the carriage, though it is half the size of the mob at the station. Tribute Square is restricted to Capitol civilians, and there are Peacekeepers on guard at all times. I am thankful they are keeping the crowd at bay, even though I know those Peacekeepers are also there to keep us, the Tributes, trapped inside.

We walk down the middle of the clean street. Imogen is rambling on about each District's Institute, bragging about what they had and boasting about what they lacked. She lists off each of them as we pass as though we cannot read or count. I try to keep my eyes forward; as far as I can tell there are no Tributes outside, but I do not want to risk catching watchful, predatory eyes in a window. Hodge is shuffling behind Isabelle and I. He is humming to himself, but the tune is too urgent to be comforting. He is close enough behind us that he risks stepping on our heels.

Finally we walk up the steps of District Twelve's Institute. Imogen pulls open the door and allows us to pass. There is an enormous stairwell up ahead. To the left is a dining room, already set for dinner, and to the right appears to be a study. Books line the walls and desks with writing utensils are at the ready.

"The bedrooms are upstairs. They are clearly marked, so you'll know which are yours and which are for us. Dinner will be served shortly," Imogen says.

Isabelle meets my eyes before approaching the staircase. I follow her, trying to keep my mouth from gaping open. The Institute is nearly ten times the size of our home in District Twelve, and it is far more elegant and cozy.

I hate it.

The upper level is a hallway lined with doors, so we take the time to peer behind each of them. One is just a large, open room. The floor and walls are lined with padding. I wonder if this is for training or an insanity outbreak. There is another smaller study across the hall. Neighboring that is a door marked with gold lettering: "Mentor." Right beside Hodge's room is a door marked with "Representative." There are only two rooms left on the other side of the hall. One is marked "Tribute 1" and the other is marked "Tribute 2." I try to switch Isabelle places and take my title as number two, but she gives me a firm push back into place.

"Don't even think about it," she growls.

I can't tell if she is just being territorial or if she is saying something deeper than her words. I make no argument and step inside Tribute 1's bedroom. The bed takes up the majority of the room, and there is not a wrinkle in sight on the plush green blankets. Facing the bed is a large screen mounted on the wall. I do not know why anyone would bother spending their final moments watching the outside world. I find a walk-in closet filled with clothes that both make me cringe and make me itch to try on. Before I am persuaded by their allure, I step out of the closet and find the attached bathroom. It is sparkling and smells clean. I would love to step into the shower, but the dials and buttons are confusing. Intimidated, I backtrack into the bedroom. The one thing I have avoided completely is the window. Two navy blue curtains are pulled to either side, letting in the outside light. Warily I approach the window and gaze out onto the street.

It is empty. There is no activity, and I am too far away to see if the crowd of onlookers has dispersed. I am about to pull the curtains closed when something catches my eye. There is a single person walking toward the communal Institute. I guess it is a guy. There is a broadness to his shoulders and a narrowness in his hips that inexplicably makes my mouth go dry. He walks in front of our Institute with long, confident strides, and he is almost past the window when he suddenly stops and looks up. A burning sensation rushes up and down my body as his eyes fall directly on me. My breath catches in my throat and I jump back from the window. My heart is beating wildly, and only when it finally begins to slow do I dare to look outside again. When I do, the stranger has disappeared. I quickly unlatch the curtains and slide them in place, shielding myself from searching eyes.

* * *

The chair I'm sitting is in soft and comfortable, but I can't help fidgeting and squirming. The crew is finishing up with Isabelle, and I've been told the makeup artist is on her way to prep me. There is a giant mirror in front of me, and I constantly avoid looking at myself. We'd been instructed not to alter our appearances in any way before arriving, nothing more than brushing out teeth, washing our faces, and brushing our hair. I'd found hair gel and even makeup in my bathroom this morning, but due to my District's norms, I had no idea how to use any of the products. Such thing were too expensive to afford, and why bother with grooming when you were covered in soot and dirt by the end of the day? Still, I wonder how powder is going to erase the dark circles under my eyes and the haunted pallor of my skin.

"There he is!"

I jump. In the mirror's reflection I see two women approaching from behind; one of them is Isabelle. The strange woman has curly pink hair, and when she gets close enough I notice her eyes are the exact same color.

"Look at you!" the woman raves. "You _are_ a handsome one!"

Isabelle crosses her arms. "Told you. There's not much work to be done on him."

The woman spins the chair around and studies every inch of my face. "Hmm. We'll see about that." She returns me to my original position. "What's with the bags, love?"

"I didn't sleep well," I murmur.

"Was your bed not comfortable enough?"

"It wasn't the bed."

The woman looks baffled. "What on earth could have kept you up all night?"

"It couldn't possibly be the thought of our impending doom," Isabelle says sarcastically.

The woman pinches her lips and snaps her fingers. Two men in identical uniforms march into the room, and the woman points at Isabelle. "Let her change and take her back to the Square. She's putting a damper on my creativity."

My sister is escorted out of the room without so much as a wave, and I am left alone with the makeup artist. She begins pulling numerous containers and jars from drawers and kits littering the floor. I look at the array of colors she sets on the table in front of me and swallow hard. I am not a professional, but I see no way in which purple and green would look good on my face.

The woman sets to work on my makeup. She hums pleasantly to herself, but avoids making conversation with me. I don't imagine we have a lot in common. She dabs an oddly-shaped, pink sponge against my skin, paying particular attention to the spots under my eyes. She sweeps a soft brush across both of my cheeks, and, embarrassingly enough, puts color onto my lips. She is relaxed, completely engrossed in her work, but I feel awkward with her close proximity. She breathes out of her nose, but I can still feel the warmth on my neck and face.

Next she continuously asks me to open and close my eyes. Something wet lines my eyelids. When she tells me to open them again, she is holding a small wand-like stick with bristles on the end. She holds it close to my eyelashes and asks me to blink several times. She does the same to my other eye.

After a gruelling long time to sitting still in the chair, the woman steps back and looks my face up and down. She searches for the slightest mistakes or imperfections, but I can tell she has found none because she smiles and puts down the objects in her hands. She claps her hands together.

"My masterpiece is nearly finished!"

My shoulders droop. " _Nearly_?"

"Just one final touch." She picks up what looks like an odd pair of binoculars. Bending forward, she holds them in front of her face and mine. I can see her eyes through the lenses. "Perfect. Just look straight ahead at me, love."

I am about to ask what she is doing when two puffs of air assault my eyes. I jerk in the chair and my eyelids reflexively snap shut. My hands fly up to rub at my eyes.

"No!" the woman cries. "Don't smudge my work! Just blink it off."

My hands fall to my sides and curl into fists. Huffing, I blink several times and glare at the woman, but my fiery look bounces right off her. She claps her hands and jumps up and down excitedly.

"You're perfect! Have a look! Tell me what you think."

I tense, turning toward the mirror. I am determined to tell her what an awful job she's done until I catch my reflection. This woman has completely transformed me; I hardly recognize myself. The circles under my eyes have vanished, and my skin has acquired a golden glow. My cheeks have a faint blush, emphasizing my bone structure. But it's my eyes that capture my attention. The lashes are dark and more pronounced. My eyelids have been lined with black pencil and colored with gold powder. The spray she'd given me had switched the redness of my eyes for bright white and gave my irises an enhanced, almost eerie, brightness.

"You love it," the artist declares. "I can see it in your eyes. Let's send you off to hair and wardrobe. Your hour is close at hand!"

I follow in a daze as she leads me into another room. A different woman makes quick work of my hair. She coats her hands in a thick, clear gel and pushes her fingers through the strands. I peek over her shoulder at the mirror and see that my hair is now sticking up, but it has been styled with an edginess that makes me stand a bit taller.

When the hairdresser finishes with me, she whisks me off to wardrobe. A man awaits my arrival instead of a woman, and his eyes linger on me a little too long. I know I should feel confident and empowered with my new look, but I flinch under his stare. Mumbling to himself, he disappears behind several racks of clothing. I spot a puffy pair of red and yellow striped pants and feel my palms sweat. The wrong outfit would ruin my image. This realization makes me regret not smiling at the man when I walked in.

He returns with a heap of black material in his arms. One by one he picks up each piece of clothing and holds it up to my body. His eyes widen and narrow as he debates what to put me in. I stay perfectly still and silent, not wanting to ruin his concentration and earn myself puffy pants.

"Let's try this one," the man says, picking up one of the tops from the pile. "Take off your shirt."

I wonder if the heat in my cheeks is visible through my makeup. Nervously, I start to unbutton the white shirt that I'd been given when I'd arrived at the studio. It slips free from my shoulders and down my arms, the whisper of cotton against my skin making me shiver. I set it aside and take the proffered garment from the man. He watches intently as I shrug into the shirt. It is long-sleeved and made of a soft yet strong material I cannot name. There is a hidden zipper down the front, and six straps and buckles line from chest to stomach. The collar is high, and once it is done up I feel like the material is choking my neck. The man helps me buckle the shirt then steps back to check his progress. Satisfied, he picks up a pair of pants and hands them to me.

"Put these on," he instructs. "I'm going to grab something."

As soon as the man's back is turned I start to strip from the waist down. My movements are clumsy as I hasten to get the pants on. They are my size but the material is tight and form-fitting. The muscles in my thighs are emphasized and there is only a slight flare to the pants that barely leaves breathing space for my calves. Buttons and zippers done up, I wait for the man to return. When he does, he stops midstride and gapes at me.

"It's a little tight," I say, pushing my shoulders back and watching the material strain against my chest.

"It's perfect," the man replies breathlessly. He rushes forward and shows me what he has gathered: In one hand is a pair of gloves and a weird belt with two connected straps, a metal-lined loop attached to the smaller of the two. In the other is a gleaming sword, the hilt carved into deadly spike-shaped wings. He sets the weapon down and wraps the belt around my waist. He slings it low on my hips so the brown leather is visible below my shirt. The other strap, I learn, goes around my thigh, and I stand awkwardly as he fastens it. When it is secure, he picks up the sword and slides it through the loop at my leg. The blade extends just below my knee.

"That's strictly for decoration. Don't touch it; you'll want to keep all of your extremities for the Trial."

I don't say anything back, but the man is unbothered. The gloves I slip by myself, but I need his help to lace them. They are made of black leather and shiny silver chainmail. He grabs the finishing touch, a pair of boots with way too many straps, and helps me put them on. He sends me to my final destination with words of luck. I step into a large room and feel a dozen pairs of eyes on me. Amongst the people there are giant fans, camera equipment, props, and one massive green backdrop.

"Alexander Lightwood. District Twelve." A slender woman with no hair approaches me. She has piercings everywhere: eyebrows, nose, lips, and ears. I think I see one on her tongue when she speaks. "Ready to get started?"

I try to speak, but my throat has gone dry.

"No need to be nervous," the woman assures me with a warm smile. "I'll tell you what to do. Just follow my instruction and act natural."

I am led over to the green screen and positioned in front of it. The woman turns my body this way and that, posing me. I try to relax, but the watchful eyes of the crew makes me tense and nervous. The photographer asks me to widen the stance of my legs and places my hand on the hilt of the sword hanging at my hip. I comply and watch her as she steps away. She stands behind her camera and looks through the lens.

"All right, Alexander. We're going to do a couple head on shots. Just look at me; don't smile." A flash goes off and I feel my pulse hammering in my throat. "Take a deep breath. Relax your shoulders and grip a bit."

I loosen my fingers around the sword and let my shoulders drop, but my back is still stiff. All of the confidence given to me by my new look is quickly being stripped away. A few of the crew members are whispering to each other, nodding in my direction. I flinch just as another flash goes off. The photographer looks at her camera screen and winces.

"Let's try a different angle." She points to a wall high on her left. "Look up there for me please. Do you see a red marker?"

I follow her direction and see a small but vibrant red _X_ marked on the wall. My chin lifts as I look at it.

"Just look at that. Keep your body angled toward me. Deep breath in. . ."

A flash goes off in the corner of my vision just as I exhale. I concentrate on the red marker, switching between clenching and unclenching my jaw between flashes of light.

"Alexander, can you relax your face a little? And open your eyes; you're squinting."

I blink and realize I _have_ been squinting, concentrating _too_ hard on the _X_. A couple more flashes go off, and the photographer gives me a couple words of encouragement. She directs me to turn around and look at the camera over my shoulder, my hand still on the hilt of the sword. I do as she asks, parting my lips when she asks and offering the tiniest smile when she changes her mind.

We take a break a while later and the crew confers about adding props or not. The photographer disagrees on the matter, but several crew members insist. I catch whispered words about my fading into the background, but the woman comes to my defense, firmly objecting. I wordlessly vow to do better.

The first few shots after the break elicit more promising comments from the spectators. I feel myself start to relax and work with the camera instead of against it. It's when the photographer tries to get head on shots again that my progress takes another downfall. After every shot the woman looks at her camera and frowns, shaking her head. After many attempts, she sighs and straightens, rolling her shoulders.

"I'm going to grab another lens. Just take a couple minutes."

My shoulders sag with defeat. My hand rises to rake my fingers through my hair, but, remembering the gel, I let it fall back to my side. The last thing I need is to ruin what little of my image that I have. My gaze falls to the floor and I close my eyes. The walls in my mind begin to crumble and my father's voice seeps in through the cracks:

 _"Seventeen years old and you can't even keep your damn shirt neatly pressed."_

 _"Don't disappoint us."_

I can see his eyes, so full of disapproval. I'd never felt the protective embrace of my father's arms, only the hard shove of his hands as he'd pushed me to the ground too many times to count. I couldn't remember the last time he'd told me he loved me. I couldn't remember the last time he'd spoken to me in a tone that wasn't stern or rough or cold.

 _"Don't disappoint us._ "

I'd worked so hard to earn my father's respect and love, and in return he wanted me dead.

"Alexander?"

The photographer's voice barely carries over my father's. My eyes rise from the floor and I look at her through the tops of my eyes. My hands are fisted so tightly at my sides that I feel pain. My shoulders are square and there is hot rage swimming in my veins.

A flash goes off and the room goes completely silent. I blink and shake my head, snapping out of my emotional reverie. My fingers ache as my fists loosen. I am aware that everyone except the photographer are staring at me in astonishment and awe. I reflexively step back. The photographer looks at me with wide eyes.

"This is it," she says quietly. "This is the one."

I am about to ask if I can leave when the woman rushes toward me. She turns the camera around in her hands and shows me the screen. For a moment I am too scared to look at it; I don't want to be disappointed by the image.

But it is far from disappointing.

The first thing I notice is the background. The green backdrop has been covered over by black and purple rain clouds. Bolts of lightning crack through in the distance. I am standing on black and silver rock that seems to stretch for miles.

Next I see myself, and I slowly absorb the view of my outfit. I look ready for battle, as though I am ready to kill anything that gets in my way. The material does good things for my physique. I appear both lean and strong, muscled in places I'd never noticed before. The sword at my side has caught a glint of light in the photo, but it does not immediately draw attention.

The photographer presses a button and the camera zooms in. I am now looking myself directly in the eyes. My head is ducked slightly and my eyes are glowering. My jaw is clenched and there is no hint of a smile curving my lips. I am the human embodiment of rage and malice. The blood in my veins has turned icy, and my heart is not strong enough to push heat back into them.

The Trial has already changed me. I step away from the camera. The man in the picture is not me; he is terrifying.

"This is the one," the photographer repeats, entranced by the digital photo.

"Can I go now?" I choke out.

"Of course." She flicks her hand in dismissal. "Leave the outfit. Our crew will be stopping by each Institute tonight to prepare you Tributes for the Night of Ascension."

I scurry out of the room, tugging at the constricting collar. My legs carry me all the way back to the makeup artist's room. There is no one waiting for me, which is a relief. I finally get the buckle at my neck undone and lean forward, bracing my arms on the table in front of the mirror and sucking in gasping breaths. When I look at my reflection I see I am myself again, only more panicky than usual. As I straighten I realize what that picture truly showed me: I can win the Trial, or at least protect Isabelle long enough to help her win. All I have to do is kill a part of myself and let the murderous side of me from the photo free.

I thought I knew who I was, but today I'd seen two different forms of myself for the first time. Which side was the real me? One side was evidently dangerous enough to kill anyone that stood between me and victory. But was that unpredictable side also willing to let Isabelle be killed? Or worse, once unleashed, would that side of me be willing to kill my sister?


	3. Choice

_**Hey, readers! Thanks for being patient with me. I hope this gets your excitement going. Can't wait to get to the Trial! Happy reading!**_

* * *

Isabelle reaches across the table for another dinner roll. "Where's Hodge?"

Imogen, who is on her third glass of wine, replies in a bored tone, "I don't think he'll be joining us this evening."

My sister shrugs and rips the flaky roll in half. She shoves one of the pieces into her mouth and picks up a large bowl in front of her. She drops several spoonfuls of its contents onto her plate, sets the bowl down, and attacks the food ravenously. Imogen quirks a perfectly-sculpted eyebrow, but says nothing. She swirls the wine in her glass before taking another swig.

I prod at the food on my plate with my fork; my appetite has long since vanished. A satisfying meal is hard to come by in District Twelve, but the Capitol food is so rich and flavorful that is makes my stomach twist. Between the strange food in my belly and the nerves gnawing at my gut, I feel about ready to throw up. I can only watch, partly awed and partly appalled, as Isabelle shovels more and more food into her mouth.

"So do you know how he won the Trial?" Isabelle asks around a mouthful of potato.

I kick her under the table, reminding her to use manners, but she retaliates by opening her mouth at me and giving me a pleasurable view of the chewed muck covering her tongue.

Imogen raises her half-empty glass and stares at it curiously. "I do." She brings the glass to her lips and empties it completely. "But that is his story to tell." I feel a flicker of respect for Imogen Whitelaw, until she looks at me with a smirk and says, "However, I _will_ tell you that Starkweather's victory was a fluke, albeit a bloody one. A marvellous finale."

I look down at the steak on my plate. The pink juices slithering around on the white surface have suddenly become revolting. I swallow the rising bile in my throat and push away from the table. The legs squeal harshly against the floor under my weight, but I hurry out of the dining room without apology. I take the stairs two at a time and rush into my room. Once there, I slam the door shut, lock it, and lean my forehead against the cool wood. Even behind the barrier I can still feel the Trial's looming presence. Tense, I back away from the door and head for the window. There is only a faint light behind the curtains. It's getting dark, but the Ascension does not begin until well after nightfall. I have some time to rest before I'm forced to make nice with my potential murderers.

The bed's embrace is soft and welcoming when I lay down on my back. I cross my arms over my chest and nestle back into the pillows. My mind begins to wander as I stare up at the ceiling. I think of my mother and father, wondering what they're doing, what they had to eat tonight, if they've mourned the loss of their firstborn son yet.

My stomach twists and I roll onto my side, curling into a ball. Behind closed eyes, my mind summons the person I'd seen walking by the Institute the day prior. From my vantage point I'd been unable to determine his height, but I imagined him to be tall. Grown into his muscular shoulders. Confident posture and a cocky grin. Dark hair, like mine. And his hands: Are they strong and calloused, or slender and deft? Do his fingers slither across my skin or grab possessively—

I jackknife upright on the bed, swallowing past the lump in my throat and breathing hard. My skin feels alive, electrified. There's a stirring deep within my body, one I've kept suppressed for many years. Why is it surfacing now? And for someone who'd sooner wrap his hands around my throat than my. . .

Blood splashes against my tongue, and the metallic taste chases away the thoughts in my head. I unclamp my teeth from the inside of my cheek and recline back down on the mattress. I close my eyes and think of only the softness of the pillows until I am deeply asleep.

* * *

Someone pounds suddenly and urgently on my door, and the noise startles me so much I roll right out of the bed. Cursing under my breath and rubbing my aching elbow, I get up from the floor and hurry to answer it. As expected, Isabelle is standing in the hall when I throw the door open, but the fact that she is not alone silences the lashing of my tongue.

"Have fun," Isabelle says as she turns away. "I'll be waiting in my room."

The crew in the hallway surges into my room, led by the same makeup artist from the photo shoot. She has switched her pink hair and irises for purple, and her lips and nails have been added to the color scheme. She flicks her elegant hands this way and that, ordering the crew around my room. With a smile, she grabs my hand and drags me into the bathroom. Someone had unfolded a chair and placed it in front of the bathroom, and the makeup artist all but pushes me into it. I grab onto the armrests and press my weight on them, narrowly preventing the chair from tipping over.

The woman clicks her tongue in a chiding manner as she looks over my face. "What have you done to my masterpiece, sweetheart?"

I glance in the mirror and see what she's means: The makeup around my eyes is smudged and my hair is flat on one side from sleeping on it. I am still groggy from being roused so suddenly.

"No matter. We'll start fresh, give you a whole new look. Doesn't that sound lovely?"

I don't bother to reply because she has already set to work on my face. She begins by wiping off the old makeup with a soft, damp towelette, then she pats my skin with a powdered pink sponge. Her brush whisks over my cheeks and then she moves on to my eyes. As before, she lines my eyes with black and adds darkness to my lashes, but instead of coating my eyelids in gold shadow, she instead traces a line of red on my top eyelids, just above the black. I sneak a peek in the mirror when she turns to grab another product and make a face. The red clashes with the blue of my irises, but I say nothing. She makes a few tweaks here and there, even going as far as two pluck a few stray hairs from my eyebrows. She has to stop several times because my eyes are watering so bad her work is threatened of being smudged again.

Finally, the artist hands me off to the hairstylist, also the same woman as before. She frowns at the mess I've created and pulls a tall can from a leather bag on the counter. She circles around me, spraying the contents into my hair. On her second go around she sprays my head with a water bottle, dabbing at my forehead to catch stray droplets. My hair looks as if it has just been washed when she finishes. It is damp, flat, and free of any styling products. The stylist grabs a handheld object that blows air and uses it to dry my hair. She makes quick work of styling it —the same style as before— and shoos me out into the bedroom.

I expect to see the same man who assigned my wardrobe from the photo session, but instead I find an unfamiliar woman standing at the foot of my bed. She turns and curls her finger at me, gesturing me to come forward. Half of her head is shaved, the other half is covered in sleek, honey-blonde strands that fall to her waist. Without a word, she grabs a pair of scissors, tugs at the hem of my shirt, and begins slicing the material up the middle. I begin to protest, but remember the shirt is not really mine. I'd found it in the closet, one of the few articles that was plain and comfortable.

The woman sets the scissors on the bed and pushes the material from my shoulders. It falls to the floor in a soft _whoosh_. She hands me a black shirt; it's soft to the touch. I shrug into it and allow her, not without reluctance, to fasten the buttons. The shirt seems to be plain cotton, just not threadbare and itchy like all of my clothes back in Twelve. It is long-sleeved and form-fitting, but the chest does not gape when I roll my shoulders back. Next the women helps me into a black waistcoat. Intricate red detailing has been stitches into it, and I now understand why the makeup artist chose red to line my eyes.

When the woman picks up the next item, my look of utter horror and confusion coaxes a smile out of her. It unnerves me that she has not yet spoken a single word, but the smile hints at her kindness. She sets the item on my shoulder and I realize it is a piece of dark brown leather. There are two wide straps; one she fastens around my neck and the other under my arm. The leather stretches all the way down to my wrist, and the woman curls it around my arm and begins the tedious job of lacing it. I have to hold my arm out while she fastens it, and she crouches awkwardly underneath and tilts her head back to see her work. After a few minutes my arm begins to shake, but the woman continues on unflinchingly. When she finishes, she grabs my arm and lowers it, twisting my wrist left and right. When I look down, I catch what I hadn't noticed before. Embedded in the armor are studs —gems, perhaps?— that are invisible until they catch the right light. When they gleam, they speckle red, silver, and gold light down my arm. It is an entrancing effect, and I continue twisting my arm long after the woman lets go.

The black leather pants she gives me are unremarkable aside from the lacing that runs from hip to ankle on the outside of either leg. She laces each pair of leather strings into meticulous knots, crouching on the floor without complaint. All that's left afterwards is a pair of boots, the same pair from the photo session. The woman helps me into them, tucking my pant legs inside before strapping them.

She stands when the final strap is secure and looks me over from head to toe, her expression blank. Just when I think she is about to speak, the makeup artist comes sweeping into the room.

"Look at _you_!" She claps her hands together. "An Avenging Angel if I ever saw one!"

The entire crew stares at me for a long moment before they are commanded to move on to Isabelle. The wardrobe stylist hangs back while the other filter out of the room. When they are all gone, she turns to me and offers a sad smile. Her gentle hand finds the nape of my neck and she leans forward, pressing the lightest kiss on my cheek. I stare at her, stunned, as she pulls away.

In the faintest whisper she says, " _Ave_." Then she turns away and scurries out of the room.

I touch my fingers to my cheekbone where the weak warmth of her lips remains. An eeriness settles over me. I have the slightest inkling that that woman only speaks words of the highest importance, and she hadn't said farewell. She'd only said one word.

 _Hail_.

* * *

Though we are directly next door to the communal Institute, the walk to the front doors seems to last for ages. Imogen and Hodge walk in front of Isabelle and I. Imogen is wearing a sleeveless, floor-length black dress, and Hodge is in a plain black suit. Isabelle is clad in the feminine version of my outfit: A strapless black dress, fitted in the chest and loose at her hips. The hem only reaches halfway down her thighs, but it is longer at the back. Her boots almost reach her knees. Like me, she wears a piece of leather armor, only hers is on the opposite shoulder. Her hair is poufy at the crown of her head, and the curled strands have been pulled into a ponytail. Aside from the glossy red color on her lips, our makeup is the same. I keep sneaking sidelong glances at her and marvel at how even with the same image, I look fake and Isabelle looks deadly.

The Institute's doors are pulled open by two men in ridiculous gold, ruffled suits. They watch stoically as our group walks by. Dressed all in black, we must look like we are headed to a funeral. The ironic thought makes me want to laugh, but I choke it down by clearing my throat.

We walk down a long hallway. I can faintly hear music and there is light up ahead. That must be the grand ballroom, where everyone, guests and tributes, are waiting. I look away, my pulse hammering in my throat. My attention is caught on pictures hanging along the walls. The farther we walk, the more the pictures change, becoming more and more modern. I realize I am looking at portraits of past Trial victors. I stifle a gasp and hastily look away.

Imogen glares at us over her shoulder. "Remember, absolutely _no_ fighting. You'll want to try to make allies with the other tributes. Be polite and on your best behavior. Don't look so uptight," she hisses. "Isabelle, take your brother's arm."

Isabelle takes my proffered elbow without complaint. Her hands are warm through my shirt, but not at all clammy like mine feel. She is holding onto _me_ , but I latch onto _her_ strength as we make our grand entrance into the grand ballroom. It is all I can do to keep my chin up and not let my eyes fall to the floor.

A round of chatter rises over the music as we make our appearance. In one synchronized movement, Hodge and Imogen move aside and allow us to walk past. All eyes are on us, and though all gazes seem to be that of approval, I feel like I cannot breathe. The air is caught in my chest, the strap around my neck strangling me.

Isabelle squeezes my elbow and she looks at me with a bright, charming smile. But I can see the question in her eyes: _Are you all right?_

I give the slightest nod and plaster on a crooked smile. Hodge and Imogen reappear at our sides and escort us to the refreshments table. There is an array of colorful drinks and an assortment of small-portioned foods. My eyes skim over the meats and vegetables and land on the desserts, decorated with fluffy cream, fruit, and edible gold.

A sparkling glass is thrust into my hand and I struggle not to spill any of the bubbling liquid inside. Imogen smiles down at me. "Have a drink, dear. It will calm the nerves. You look like you've just been told you have to dance naked in front of these people."

I put the glass to my lips and drain the fluid in one swallow. Imogen takes my empty glass and sets it on the table, casting an embarrassed smile to surrounding onlookers. The drink has left a burning sensation inside my nose, and the flavor makes me want to gag, but I can already feel my pulse starting to slow. My muscles begin to relax, and I reach for another glass.

Imogen puts her hand on my wrist before I can take a sip. Though she is smiling pleasantly, her voice is anything but. "Pace yourself," she hisses. "The last thing we need is you wandering around in a drunken stupor, making a complete idiot of yourself."

I take the smallest swallow to appease her and turn my attention to the other guests. They are all obviously from the Capitol; their bizarre outfits give them away all too easily. I spot a woman with green hair so long she must drape it over her arm to prevent dragging it on the floor. There is a man nearby showing off his suit to an applauding crowd. I watch as the material changes color to match whatever he touches. He touches a woman's red gown, and his suit switches from yellow to red. He dips his fingers into his drink and his suit changes from red to blue with floating silver bubbles.

If I didn't know better, I would have thought we'd been dragged to a fashion show.

I swallow the remainder of my drink while Imogen isn't looking.

Our mentor and representative are immersed in a conversation with an older couple, so Isabelle takes the opportunity to drag me farther into the crowd. There's some breathing room just under a torch mounted on the wall, hidden from Imogen's view. We stop there and Isabelle releases my elbow. She looks around for prying eyes and ears but we have so far gone unnoticed.

"Are you all right?"

"I'll be glad when this is all over."

Her eyebrows tighten together. "You mean tonight, right?"

I don't elaborate. This makes her frown, but she does not press the issue further. She lifts onto the balls of her feet, scanning the ballroom. Her face lights up when her eyes reach the corner opposite from us.

"There's a group of tributes over there. How about we go say hello?"

Before I can answer, the music swelling around us fades out and the room quiets of conversation. On the far side of the ballroom, there are two small stages and a large screen set between them. The orchestra is seated on the left-hand stage, and a woman has climbed onto the right-hand one. She is wearing a short dress made of what appears to be white fringe and diamonds. It clatters when she moves. Her hair is incredibly short and white, and mounted on her back are two folded wings. The crowd looks awed by her ensemble, but I only feel rage. She is impersonating an angel, glamorizing the Trial, and I find myself wishing she was forced to participate. Her dress would not be as awe-inspiring covered in blood.

"Welcome," her voice, enhanced by a hidden microphone, is melodic, "to the Night of Ascension. Tributes, may the angels protect you and watch over you in the Trial to come. This night is for you."

The orchestra begins to play again, and numerous couples rush to the centre of the floor and begin dancing. Men twirl the women and they sway together, each to their own tune. More and more people are joining in the dancing, but a large portion of the guests remain off on the side, watching the entertainment in delight.

Isabelle snatches my hand. "Come on. This is the perfect opportunity." She yanks me onto the dance floor before I can protest.

Mechanically, I place one hand on her waist as hers finds my shoulder. We interlace the fingers of our free hands and begin to sway, pivoting in a circle. Isabelle is too busy glancing around to pay attention, so it's up to me to keep our movements in synch with the music. From time to time I twirl her around, mimicking the men and woman around us.

Suddenly there is a tap on my shoulder. Isabelle completes her twirl and looks at someone behind me. Keeping my sister's hand firmly in mine, I turn and find a tall guy watching us with a grin. He looks about my age, with dark hair, dark eyes, and a crooked nose. His outfit is gray and military-styled. He almost looks like a Peacekeeper.

"Mind if I cut in?" His voice is smooth as silk.

Isabelle all too quickly slips her hand free of mine and offers it to the newcomer. "Isabelle Lightwood. District Twelve."

The boy's grin widens and reveals straight, white teeth. "Sebastian Verlac. District Six." He takes her fingers and bows, pressing his lips to the back of her hand.

I frown to see the faintest blush in my sister's cheeks. Recovering quickly, I smile and take my leave. From the sidelines I watch as they dance together effortlessly and flawlessly. The two of them are talking, and occasionally Isabelle throws her head back and laughs. I cannot tell if her flirting is sincere, but I can see that it's working. Sebastian is mystified by her.

I tear my eyes away from them and survey the room for other tributes. It only takes spotting a couple of them to realize how lucky Isabelle and I are for our wardrobe. One pair has been clad completely in shining armor; it looks heavy and uncomfortable. In contrast, another pair has barely any clothing at all. The male tribute has a short skirt made of leather straps, probably a traditional garb of sorts. The female tribute is wearing a solid leather skirt that barely covers her buttocks, and a matching leather top that covers only her breasts. Her shoulders and midriff are bared. Neither of them are wearing shoes.

The orchestra's music fades out and everyone pauses to applaud them. As they begin to play again, several of the couples on the dance floor retire to the refreshments table. A gap opens and I spot a group of four tributes in conversation across the room. There are two blondes, a redhead, and a dark-haired guy with his back to me. The blonde boy and the redheaded girl stand side by side, both of them holding drinks in their hands. She wears a gold sequined top that exposes her stomach, and he wears a gold mesh shirt that shows off the muscled, tanned skin beneath. Both of them wear matching black pants and boots. Their smiles are cordial and regal, and I immediately feel threatened by them.

The blonde girl is talking, gesturing wildly with her hands and flashing a superior smile. Her hair is braided from her forehead down past her shoulders, but it is so thick and poufy that it stands up on her head like a half-hearted mohawk. Her pale skin is stark against the black corset she wears. There's a strip of milky skin between the corset and her pants. She's wearing red high heels, and there is a giant red bow at the small of her back.

I can't tell much about the guy standing next to her; his back is still to me. He's wearing a black vest, and it shows off his muscled arms and shoulders. Just when I think I recognize him, he feels my stare and glances over his shoulder. Our eyes lock and I feel a jolt in my chest. I hastily look away and sidle to the right, hiding myself behind a plump man in purple. The man notices me, however, and I politely smile and try to find another clearing. There's one near the refreshment table. When I reach it I immediately search for the group. I locate them in the same spot they'd been before, but this time one of them is missing.

"Alexander Lightwood."

Startled, I whip around. He's standing there, his hands clasped behind his back. My worst fear is confirmed: This is the guy I saw through the window yesterday, and just as I imagined, there is a cocky grin spreading on his lips. The one eye I can see is a luminous yellow-green; the other is hidden behind a sweep of black hair. My gaze travels down to his throat. The vest he wears is high-collared except for at the front of his neck. In the gap is the pristine knot of a red tie. I purposely skip over observing his pants and I spot his boots, which are black with red laces.

His deep, luscious voice calls my eyes to his face once again. "Older brother to District Twelve's second tribute, Isabelle Lightwood."

My mouth has gone dry, so I incline my head instead of answering.

He offers his hand. "Magnus Bane. District Two."

My fingers are surprisingly dry and steady as I shake his hand. My heart is thundering in my chest, but I had felt it clench at the mention of his District. Districts One and Two always form alliances in the Trials, an alliance known as the Career Pack. It is also common knowledge that the Careers despise outlying Districts; thus, I cannot fathom why Magnus Bane is even talking to me. I brace myself for inevitable insults.

He steps forward and gazes out into the crowd. "The stylists have been raving about you."

I turn and follow his line of vision. Our shoulders almost touch. "About me?"

"They're calling you the Avenging Angel."

"That title is not well-deserved." I am not trying to be modest.

"We'll find out, won't we?" He does not return my glance. "Your sister is a pretty little thing, isn't she?"

I locate Isabelle in a swirl of dancers. She is no longer in Sebastian Verlac's arms, but in those of a boy dressed in green. She looks happy, lost in the strums of the instruments.

"She's beautiful," I correct quietly.

"Beautiful hair and nice skin," Magnus agrees. "But her eyes are all wrong. Too dark. Yours on the other hand. . ." He's looking at me now. We are the same height, so I meet his gaze easily. I can't tell if he's flirting with me, teasing me, or baiting me. All I know is that the way he says it makes me shudder, and not from fear.

A new tune rises in the ballroom, the rhythm slower than the previous selections. Isabelle goes willingly into a different guy's arms, leaving several tributes staring after her, looking put out and jealous.

Magnus flashes his cocky grin. "How about it, Twelve? Care to dance?"

I think he is joking until I suddenly feel his hand on my waist. His touch is feather-light, but it feel as though my skin has been exposed to a flame. I jump out of his reach and say, "Wouldn't you rather dance with your fellow Tribute?"

The group of three is eyeing up a younger boy standing alone in close proximity to them. He looks maybe Isabelle's age, with blonde hair. Even from this distance, I can see that he has different colored eyes. One is lighter than the other. His tense posture and fidgety gaze betrays his awkwardness and anxiety. The glass in his hand shakes.

"Camille hates dancing. Clary belongs to Jace, and Jace would throttle me if I asked him to dance."

Before I can respond, Jace inches closer to the boy and gives him a shove from behind. The boy spills his drink all over himself and the glass flies out of his jittery hand. It shatters on the floor, and the sound is almost louder than the orchestra. Jace, Clary, and Camille laugh as the boy edges away from them. He is red-faced, but I can't tell if it's from embarrassment or suppressed rage. I notice that Magnus is not laughing.

The ballroom goes quiet again, only scattered whispers and the sweeping of broken glass audible. The fake angel is standing on her podium again.

"It is now time to present the images of our tributes. Voting will commence after the final image. May the best tribute win."

All at once, the lights in the ballroom go out. There are several startled and exhilarated shouts. The screen between the stages lights up with the first image: The female tribute from District One. Clary. My eyes are on the screen, but I don't actually focus until Magnus pops up. Every tribute has the same background, but each pose is different. I don't give much attention to his outfit, only enough to realize it's tight and black, like mine was. It's his face that draws me in. His body is turned, arms crossed, and he is looking over his shoulder. His chin is up and he wears his familiar cocky grin. An eyebrow is raised, almost mischievously. In ratio to the background, there is not much of Magnus in the picture, but his posture and expression command attention. He is effortlessly imposing. There are a few whistles and catcalls from the crowd. I feel the stirring again, the same one deep inside my body.

The rest of the presentation is a blur of pouty lips, fierce eyes, and lethal outfits. I tune back in just in time to catch Isabelle's image. She looks like a goddess. Her hair is caught in a breeze, but the strands do not obscure her face. Her body faces head on, but her gaze is off to the side, watchful and intense. Her legs are spread wide and in one hand is a golden whip.

There is an uproar from the males in the ballroom. It is the loudest reaction by far, and I truly believe Isabelle is going to win this challenge.

And then my picture fills the screen.

My gaze is so menacing that it steals the breath from my lungs. I turn away from the screen. I think the noise in my ears is a symphony of ringing and pounding, until I realize it's the crowd that has gone insane, not my pulse. Men and women are cheering, screaming their voices hoarse. I spin around, glancing from one expression to the next. They are not terrified. They are elated, all smiles and captivated eyes. Some people are even chanting "Twelve" over and over. The men and women next to Magnus and I are pointed and gawking, star-struck.

The lights flicker back on and my image mercifully disappears from the giant screen. I finally suck in a breath of air.

It rushes right back out when Magnus leans into my ear. "You were right. You're not an Avenging Angel." His lips just barely brush my skin as he whispers, "You're an Archangel." He retreats into the crowd and disappears.

I press my hand against my chest, willing my heart to beat again. The orchestra is playing now, but no one is dancing. Small handheld screens are being distributed to the guests. I peer over the shoulder of a man and watch him flip through all twenty-four images at his leisure. The final screen is filled with District numbers and names. I turn away before I can see the man cast his vote.

"Alec!" Isabelle cuts through a throng of people and clasps my hand. "They loved you!"

I squeeze her fingers. "You're a crowd favorite."

She glances around. "Who was that guy you were standing with?"

I wonder nervously if she'd seen how close he'd gotten to me before scurrying away. "Magnus Bane. District Two."

"Two?" she says skeptically. "Careers hate Twelve."

I keep the disappointment out of my voice. "I know."

Several minutes later, the small screens are rounded up and the hostess is back up on the stage. "Voting has taken place in this room, throughout the Capitol, and across the twelve Districts. The numbers have been tallied. It's time to present tonight's victor."

The ballroom is silent, every pair of eyes glued to the screen. I squeeze Isabelle's hand tightly, waiting for her face to appear.

It is a genuine shock when I see mine.

Everyone is applauding and Isabelle is hugging me. She pulls back just in time for Imogen to pull me into an embrace. Hodge has materialized as well, and he looks uncomfortable but he's smiling as he claps me on the back.

A celebration ensues. My image has not disappeared from the screen, so I'm careful to keep my back to it at all times. The orchestra's stringed instruments have been switched out for those that produce a more seductive, hypnotic beat. There are people drinking and dancing, but mostly they are crowding Isabelle and I. They rapid-fire questions and compliments at the two of us, but Imogen thankfully responds to all of them. She is loving the spotlight, and I intend to let her stay in it.

Finally we are granted permission to leave, much to the disappointment of the Capitol guests. Imogen insists we need our rest and herds us toward the exit, Hodge in tow. The other tributes have already left, but I cast one last hopeful glance over my shoulder. Magnus is nowhere to be found.

The night air is cool and refreshing as we walk the short distance to Twelve's Institute. The moment the door closes behind us, Hodge, who has been silent the entire night, bombards us with questions. Isabelle is enthusiastic with her answers, gushing about the guys she met and her impressions of them.

"Did any of them offer an alliance?" Hodge asks, hopeful.

At this, Isabelle goes quiet. She bites her lip and shakes her head.

Hodge turns to me. "What about you? Did you meet the other tributes?"

 _One in particular._ "Yes."

"And. . . ?" he prods.

"And what?"

"What happened?"

Heat creeps into my cheeks. "We just made polite conversation."

Hodge's face falls. "No one asked you to form an alliance?" He does not sound disappointed. He sounds absolutely horrified.

"No," I confirm.

Hodge's wide eyes bore into me for a long while. I think I see tears forming in them, but he turns away and clambers up the stairs. Imogen makes no comment. She slips by us and retires up the stairs to her room.

"I don't understand what the big deal is," I whisper to Isabelle. "Lots of tributes enter the Trial without alliances."

My sister lets out a long breath. When she speaks, her voice is gentle and patient, like I am her younger sibling. "You were the victor tonight, Alec. This was supposed to make you the most desirable ally. But if no one made an offer, that means the opposite happened."

"I'm the target enemy," I conclude quietly.

Izzy touches my shoulder and starts her journey up the staircase. I stay behind, lingering in solitude. Lingering in the darkness. Lingering in the knowledge that I am the prey of choice.

I am the one everyone wants to kill.


	4. There Are No Victors

_**Hey, readers! This chapter is a bit shorter than the others, but I thought it would be better to post something since I will be out of commission next week. I will try to update as soon as I can. Meanwhile, enjoy! Happy reading! 3**_

* * *

It is not as quiet as I'd hoped it would be outside. The guests from the Ascension have long since departed, and though the crowd of fanatics loitering at Tribute Square's border has thinned, there are still several people yelling into the night. Women scream the names of tributes, men chant the numbers of the Districts. I hear my name called several times, followed by declarations of love. I am not swayed by them because I know their love is shallow; not one of those women screaming my name knows me. My own father does not love me; why would a stranger think any differently?

My hands sweep over the concrete steps in search of rocks or twigs, but they are maddeningly clean. Frustrated, I twiddle my fingers in my lap. My mind is too preoccupied to sleep, and there is no one awake in the Institute to talk to. Expelling a long sigh, I lean my head back and gaze up into the night sky. The stars are bright and clear, unobstructed by wisps of cloud or the reaching arms of trees. My eyes linger on the waning moon. I wish it were waxing; maybe then I wouldn't feel the dwindling of my hope so steeply.

My head turns as I catch the distant sound of a door closing. A figure descends the steps of an Institute across the street, the second-closest to the border. This amplifies the screaming of the fans, but the figure remains oblivious to their cries of admiration. I give a start as I realize the figure is walking in my direction, strides long and confident. I jump to my feet and retreat to the top step. The safety of indoors calls to me, but I find myself hesitating. Tributes are not allowed to fight with one another before the Trial, which makes me wonder what could possibly be so important to say at this hour. Is an alliance afoot?

Magnus stops before reaching the first stair and gazes up at me. One eye is still obstructed by the sweep of his hair and his lips lack the curve of mirth or mischief. My muscles tense under his scrutiny.

"A little late to be out here by yourself, don't you think?" His voice is chilly, not at all like the one that flowed from his lips so smoothly at the Ascension.

I hold his gaze steadily. "I could ask you the same question."

"I don't answer to scavengers from Twelve."

His words hit me squarely in the chest, so hard it takes me a solid moment to recover. "I don't answer to assholes from Two."

This makes him smirk. My insides twist as I drink in his smile. I do not feel the same warmth inside my chest as I did at the ceremony; instead I feel the heaviness of dread.

Magnus leans closer, though he does not touch the first stair. "We'll see about that," he whispers. "I suggest you go inside. This is no place for an angel."

A sharp whistle diverts my attention. Lounging on the front lawn of the communal Institute are three figures: two blondes and a redhead. I recognize them instantly. Camille, Jace, and Clary. All three of them are watching raptly. None of them are close enough to even touch me, but I feel threatened all the same. My hand reaches behind me for the doorknob. Not taking my eyes off Magnus, I pull the door open and back inside. With a defiant glare, I slam the door shut. Muffled laughter sneaks inside and I faintly catch the receding of Magnus's footsteps.

As I quietly make my way upstairs to my room, I can't help but ponder the nagging in the back of my mind. Magnus's words sounded like a threat, but why do I get the notion that he was actually warning me? I hadn't noticed the presence of the other Careers next door. They easily could have snuck up on me.

As much as I want to believe Magnus was warning me, I cannot ignore the comment he made about my descent. He'd referred to me as a scavenger in reference to my impoverished District. It is not the worst term I've heard for a person of District Twelve, but the fact that Magnus said it is enough to inflict a wound all in itself. Born into a Career District, he is programmed to think that way about outlying Districts. Which circles back to the question: Was Magnus threatening me or warning me?

I strip out of my clothes and climb into bed. The blankets are heavy and warm, but I curl into a ball anyway. It's a habit from Twelve, huddling to preserve body warmth, and I am not about to shake it anytime soon. Not when I will be cast out into the cold again a few days from now.

Before I fall asleep, I contemplate the mystery that is Magnus Bane. I have seen two of his faces tonight: one that is polite and charming, another that is cold and dangerous. I cannot determine which of those faces is a mask, which brings me to the conclusion that Magnus Bane is currently my most lethal enemy.

* * *

Just as there had been the night prior, there is far too much food on the table for breakfast this morning. I'm overwhelmed by the sights and smells, but Isabelle has tucked in quiet enthusiastically. There are several plates of eggs, all cooked by different methods, and surrounding them are dishes of fruit, meat, and pastries. I spear a couple cubed melon chunks with my fork, nab two slices of bacon, and add a spoonful of scrambled eggs to my plate. My fork is halfway to my mouth when I noticed Imogen eyeing up my meager breakfast.

"That's all you're going to eat?" she criticizes.

Her comment bothers me, especially since her own plate is empty. There's a glass in her hand filled with what looks like orange juice, but I suspect alcohol takes up a fair volume. To spite her, I set my fork back down on my plate.

Imogen rolls her eyes. "Really, Alexander. You should try to be more like your sister."

Isabelle stops chewing her food and glares across the table at our representative. My sister knows how much that statement bothers me, therefore it bothers her. My father was never shy about letting me know how much he wished I was more like Isabelle.

Between Isabelle's glowering and Imogen's annoyance, the negative energy at the table is palpable, and without Hodge to diffuse to situation I must re-establish the peace myself.

"I'm not feeling well, so I don't have much of an appetite," I murmur.

"You don't feel well because you're not eating enough," Imogen counters.

Isabelle grumbles, "Maybe if you'd stop trying to shove food down his throat. . ."

"Maybe if you two were more appreciative of what we've given you—" Imogen stops short.

The dining room has fallen completely silent. I am shocked by Imogen's words; Isabelle has surpassed me and is barely containing her rage. Imogen at least has the grace to look guilty for what she's said. She sets her drink on the table and lowers her silver eyes.

Isabelle stands so abruptly her chair topples backwards to the floor. She slams her palms down on the table and leans toward Imogen. "Appreciative? You want us to be _appreciative_ for the food you give us right before you sacrifice us to some higher beings who don't even exist? You want us to be _appreciative_ of the help, if that's what you can even call it, you give us before you punish us for an uprising we had nothing to do with? Here's some damn appreciation for you." Isabelle thrusts her hands toward our representative, middle fingers lifted. "Come on, Alec. We're going to be late for training. Don't choke and die and your drink, Ms. Whitelaw." With that, my sister storms out of the dining room.

Imogen stares after her, wide-eyed. Hastily, I shovel a forkful of fruit into my mouth, grab the bacon from my plate, and follow Isabelle. I shove the meat into my mouth as I hurry after my sister. The fruity bacon flavor makes me grimace, but there's a hint of satisfaction in my stomach when I swallow the food. I catch up to Isabelle out on the street.

"The nerve of that woman," she snaps. "I wish they'd put her in the Trial so I could strangle her myself."

We're on the walkway to the communal Institute, but before I can get a word in the front doors open and four figures descend the stairs. I want to shove Isabelle behind me to shield her, but at the same time I want to place her between myself and them. It is a shameful thought, so, despite my fear, I shift my position to stand partially in front of Isabelle.

"Well, well, well." Jace is at the front of the pack. His voice is smooth and strong, the way a leader's is meant to be. "If it isn't the Scavenger Siblings. I'm surprised you're even here."

"You're right," Isabelle says. "I don't know why we should bother with training. We ought to give you as many advantages as you can get, because you really don't stand a chance against us in the arena."

"I'd watch that loud mouth of yours if I were you, sweetheart. It might get you killed," Jace croons.

I step forward, intending to punch Jace in the throat. Rules be damned.

But the District One tribute is not threatened in the least. He scoffs, "What are _you_ going to do, Alexander? You were freaked out by your own picture last night."

Heat rushes into my cheeks against my will. Jace, Clary, and Camille burst out into mocking laughter. I sneak a quick glance at Magnus, who is at the rear of the group. His arms are folded across his chest, biceps bulging. He isn't laughing, but there's a smirk on his face. I look away.

The group begins to file past us. I try to block out the derogatory terms they mutter as they walk by. Magnus says nothing as he passes, but he rams his shoulder into mine hard enough to twist my upper body. I stare after him, ignoring the throbbing in my shoulder.

"Bitches and bastards, the lot of them," Isabelle says beside me. "So glad I turned down Jace's offer."

I whirl on her. "What offer?"

For a moment Isabelle looks taken aback, as if she'd accidentally let the words slip out, then she just shrugs her shoulders and answers, "He asked me to join the Career Pack."

"What? When?"

"Last night, during the presentation of our images."

"But you told Hodge—"

"If he found out I was offered an alliance and declined, he would have dragged me over to One's Institute to retract my decision. Well, not literally since Hodge never leaves his room—"

I interrupt her. "You have to accept the offer, Isabelle."

This stuns her. "You can't be serious."

"A tribute from Twelve has never been offered a spot in the Career Pack. Don't let this chance slip away. You'll survive a lot longer in the Trial with them than you will with me."

"I told Jace I'd accept if he extended to offer to you as well. He declined, which makes me think his intention is to turn us against each other. That, in turn, makes me think that he's afraid of us."

"He's a Career. He doesn't know what fear is."

Isabelle puts her hands on her hips. "What are you going to do if I say yes?"

"I can track you, protect you from a safe distance."

"The Careers will find you. And when they do, they'll make me kill you, and then they'll kill me. I refuse to be their pawn. You're my ally, Alec. That's final." Isabelle turns and marches up the steps to the communal Institute.

I follow her, pushing aside the thought that her decision sounds an awful lot like a condemnation. We enter the Institute and start down the long hallway. Without the music and men in ruffled suits to greet us at the doors, there is a suffocating quiet inside. I think about the Careers in each other's company.

"Aren't the Districts supposed to train separately?" I ask.

"They're already allies. I doubt they hide much from each other. Although, there's always room for secrets. Espionage makes for great entertainment."

We enter the ballroom, which has been cleared of all memories from last night's celebration. The walls are bare of decorations, the tables and stages have been removed, and the instruments of music have been replaced with instruments of death. In contrast to the hundreds of people flooding the ballroom last night, there are but two people standing in the centre of the floor. The man on the right is tall and toned, built like a soldier. The woman on the left is short with a friendly face.

"Welcome, Isabelle and Alexander Lightwood," the woman says to us as we approach. "Today we begin day one of your two-day survival training course. Our main focus will be on survival skills, such as treating injuries, foraging for food, and building shelter. Tomorrow we will focus on fighting skills, including hand-to-hand combat and weapon combat. I suggest we get a move on. We've got a lot to go over in a short period of time. Pay close attention, because the smallest mistake could cost you your life."

I know what it is the woman has said, but what I hear in my mind is, _Pay close attention, because there are plenty of ways to easily and peacefully end your life._

* * *

I rub my temples as Isabelle rummages through my closet. The overload of information from training has left me with a throbbing deep inside my skull. I know I have absorbed plenty of information today, but when I try to recall certain things my mind goes blank. The headache at least gives me an excuse not to panic about it.

Izzy pulls a sweater from its hanger and holds it against her body. With her slender frame she'll drown in the material. "Can I borrow this?" she asks. "There's a lack of lazy clothes in my wardrobe."

"Go ahead." I give up on massaging my head and lean back against my pillows. Now that I don't have training to distract me, I can't help but think about Magnus. I want to know more about him; I want to believe he's different from the other Careers, though his recent behavior screams otherwise. "Izzy, what do you think about Magnus Bane?"

Isabelle makes a face at a fuzzy orange sweater before turning to me. "I dunno. He seemed like a jerk today, but he's kind of hot. Didn't you talk to him last night?"

I give a start, wondering if she somehow overheard Magnus and I on the stairs last night, but I know she would have mentioned it earlier if she had so I assume she must be referring to the Ascension. Recovering quickly, I say, "Only briefly. I'm not sure what to think of him. He's giving mixed signals."

"Geez, what were you two doing? Flirting?"

I'm glad Isabelle is rifling through my clothes again; she can't see the expression on my face or the blush in my cheeks.

"What do you mean by mixed signals?" she asks.

"I mean he was polite at the Ascension, but today he was an ass."

"I wouldn't trust him," Isabelle replies immediately. "There was a lot of talk about you prior to the ceremony. Magnus was probably trying to get close to you to size you up. He's from Two; don't let him manipulate you."

I smile and nod resolutely. Isabelle has always had good intuition; if she says not to trust Magnus Bane, I won't. But why do I find myself wishing she'd said the opposite?

* * *

I let out a yell as I fall face-first onto the mat. Isabelle digs her knee between my shoulder blades and twists my arm behind my back. Our trainer steps in to stop us, and though Isabelle's weight disappears the pain remains. I groan as I roll onto my back and sit up. Isabelle stares down at me, hands on hips and eyes victorious. She's breathing hard and there's a thin sheen of sweat on her face and neck. I'm sweating too but my skin is also blotched with the beginnings of bruises. I've been purposely making mistakes to test my sister's skills, and she's taken every opportunity as she's seen them. She's kicked and punched me when my guard is down, she's tripped me when I'm unbalanced, she's anticipated my false attacks. I help her to learn as much as she can in case she must get through the Trial without me.

Our weapon combat lesson is a short one. We are taught blocking and counter-strike techniques, as well as proper stances and how to hold our weapons without hurting ourselves. Neither Isabelle nor myself like swords, though we do quite well training with them. Our instructor moves us along to long-range weapons. We try our hands at target practice using throwing knives and axes. Last we use bows and arrows. Isabelle and I both excel at archery, so much so that our instructor is impressed considering neither of us has used one before.

As the day draws to a close, our instructor orders us to do one final hand-to-hand combat sequence. This time, he tells us it will not end until first blood is drawn. I swallow past a lump in my throat, but Isabelle seems unnerved. We begin by circling each other. Isabelle steps forward first, her hands raised. She aims a punch at my face, which I dodge. We circle again and when Izzy steps forward this time, she aims a kick at my side. I know I can easily grab her leg, kick her in the stomach, and send her crashing to the floor, but instead I push her leg aside and charge at her. She's slightly unbalanced, but she manages to twist out of the way.

Isabelle rushes at me just as I turn around. Just before she reaches me, I twist aside and latch my arms around her waist. My foot kicks the back of her knee and she stumbles face-down onto the mat. I press more of my weight onto her as I hold her arms down. Our instructor taught us how fight free from this position, and I know that Isabelle knows how. But she only struggles feebly beneath me. I let her go and stand up. I can't let her give up like that.

Isabelle gazes up at me from the floor with an odd expression. Is that betrayal I see in her eyes? Before I can think much of it, she throws herself at me. Her shoulder hits my abdomen and I let myself fall backward. The second my back touches the mat, I position my knees and shins under Isabelle and use my core muscles to help me flip her up and over me. She cries out in surprise and releases a grunt when her back smacks down on the mat. I don't hesitate in rolling myself backward on top of her. I sit on her stomach and pin her wrists to the floor. She isn't pinned down for two seconds before she suddenly throws her head forward. Her skulls cracks against my lip and I feel a burst of pain in my mouth. My hands fly up to catch the blood gushing from my lip and Isabelle manages to wriggle free from beneath me. She takes off her shoe and smacks me over the head with it, one hard cuff.

"Ow!" I protest, pressing a bloody hand to my hair.

Isabelle sticks up her nose, turns on her heel, and storms out of the ballroom. I get up to follow her and remember we are being watched. I turn to our trainers and incline my head. "Thank you for your guidance." More blood spills from my mouth as I speak.

They both bow their heads in return, wishing the both of us luck. I turn and chase after Isabelle. She is just about up the front steps of our Institute when I catch up with her. One shoe is still in her hand, so the fast-paced hobble she moves with to compensate for the height difference between each leg is almost comical. I reach out and grab her wrist to stop her.

She whirls on me. "What the hell was that?"

I blink. " _You_ hit _me_."

"Yeah, because you were trying to _let_ me win." She raises her shoe threateningly.

"You knew how to get out of that grapple. You knew and you didn't even try."

"Because I suspected what you were doing. I was testing you. _You_ weren't even trying."

"I wanted to make sure you know how to fight your way out of every situation, Isabelle. I need that peace of mind because I might not always be there to protect you."

"Alec, the way you were fighting in there today, I'm not even sure you can protect me." The words sting, but I know Isabelle's heart isn't in them. She sighs and lowers her shoe. With her free hand, she reaches up to touch my cheek. "Please don't talk like that. I'm not going to lose you, Alec. We either win this Trial together, or we die together."

I watch as my sister steps away and retreats inside the Institute. My smile of admiration follows her. Isabelle has always lived by her own rules, and the thought of two victors in the Trial is very appealing.

There's laughter across the street to my right. I look over just in time to see a boy and a girl shove another boy down to the sidewalk. When he tries to get up the other boy pushes his head down and roughly ruffles his hair. The boy and girl take off down the street, hooting and laughing. I watch as they approach the mob of fans being held back by Peacekeepers. The two tributes wave at them and blow kisses, basking in the attention of strangers.

Shaking my head, I cross the street and approach the kid kneeling on the sidewalk. He stiffens as I grow near, but relaxes when he looks up and sees my outstretched hand. He takes it and I pull him to his feet. I recognize him the second he is vertical. It's the same boy the Careers teased at the Ascension. He shakes his blonde hair out of his eyes and I see that one is a captivating blue-green and the other is gold.

"Thanks," the boy says quietly, shying away from my gaze. He must notice the blood on my face, but he says nothing about it.

"No problem." I look over my shoulder at the tributes still soaking up their audience's love.

"District Five. Power. They certainly own up to the title, don't they?" the boy murmurs.

 _Pushing another tribute to the ground and commanding the attention of people they don't even know? Oh yes._

I turn away from the scene down the street and offer a warm smile. "I'm Alexander Lightwood."

The corner of his mouth quirks up. "I know. You won the image challenge. I'm Mark Blackthorn. District Eight."

I discreetly look Mark over from head to foot. For a moment I consider offering to form an alliance with him, but I contemplate his potential for being more of a burden than a benefit. I can't afford to be protecting both him and Isabelle. It's a selfish decision to make, but I can't afford any mistakes, not when there are no second chances.

"Don't worry about them. They'll get what's coming to them," I promise, flicking my head back at the District Five tributes.

"Yes. They will," Mark agrees. His tone is so certain that I delay my departure to study him. He's younger and a bit lanky, not yet grown into himself. He's been victimized by two groups of other Districts already. Mark Blackthorn appears to be an easy target. But there's something about him, something I can't put my finger on, that makes him a viable competitor. Perhaps his faith is his greatest strength.

I incline my head and step onto the street. "I'll see you around."

"See you around," he calls after me.

The nape of my neck tingles as I climb the stairs of Twelve's Institute. Even without turning around, I can tell that Mark Blackthorn is still watching me.

* * *

Neither Imogen nor Hodge graces us with their presence at dinner, so Isabelle and I enjoy a hearty meal on our own. We chatter about everything other than the approaching Trial as we dine on fish, rice, and salad. Isabelle is so bold as to drink wine with her meal. Instead of trying to stop her, I join in on her antics. I can't say I appreciate the taste much, but I do enjoy the relaxing of my sore, tense muscles, and the quieting of thoughts in my head.

After dinner, Isabelle retires from her room to read through a book she found in the study. She claims she'll be an expert at identifying plants and their medicinal uses by morning. As she clambers up the staircase, I remain in the dining room and pick up one of the unused plates on the table. I fill it with as much food as I can before I head upstairs. The upper level is quiet. Isabelle's door in closed, but I can see light in the crack above the floor. I shuffle to the door marked "Mentor" and knock softly. There's no answer but I go inside anyway.

Hodge's room is meticulously tidy. There's a bookcase off to the right, and next to it is a writing desk. A stack of crisp, white paper sits in the middle. Beside it are three pencils; they are sharpened and perfectly straight, arranged from largest to smallest. The closet is closed and the bed looks as if it hasn't even been slept in. The sheets are smooth and free of wrinkles, the edges tucked neatly under the mattress.

Hodge is standing by the window, staring out onto the street. His hands are clasped behind his back, and he looks both undisturbed and unsurprised by my presence. It must be the food that captures his attention, because he turns to look at me with an audible sniff.

"I brought you some dinner," I say, as if it isn't already perfectly obvious.

Hodge offers a weak smile. "That's very kind. Thank you. It will be nice to have a warm meal instead of rummaging through the fridge while everyone else is asleep."

I wonder why our mentor would do such a thing, but I don't bother asking. He will not tell me. He takes the proffered plate and scoops up a forkful of rice.

"How was your training?" he asks.

"We've learned all we can."

Hodge chews, mulling over my vague words. He swallows. "That's all you can do. The rest is out of your hands."

I disagree with the statement, because why bother to learn combat and survival skills if our fates are already decided? But I sense there's an underlying message in Hodge's shaky voice. He's speaking out of experience.

"Hodge," I step closer to my mentor, "how did you win your Trial?"

He's quiet for a long time, long enough that I think he has wordlessly dismissed me, but he sighs and sets the plate on the desk. It's dark in the room, save for one candle burning beside the bed and the moon's light streaming in through the window. I feel cold all of a sudden, as if my heart has stopped pumping warm blood through my veins to hear what Hodge has to say.

Finally he speaks. "There was a mountain in our landscape, loose rock on its surface. I spent most of the Trial in hiding, listening and watching while the other tributes killed each other. Imagine my delight when I found out there was a cave in the mountain. I made the perilous hike and found it. Such a perfect hiding spot; I was protected from three sides, and no one could sneak up on me thanks to the loose rock.

"While I hid like a coward, the number of surviving tributes rapidly began to decline. Before long, two of us remained. I was sleeping when I heard him shouting my name. He climbed that mountain like a madman. He frightened me so badly I forgot to take a weapon with me when I abandoned my cave. He chased me across the side of the mountain, shouting and cursing at me. His first mistake, I think. He made his second when he threw his axe. It went wide, missed me and hit a solid wall of rock. I didn't think the clanging was ever going to stop, the way it echoed on that mountain.

"That's when the rocks began to fall. Just loose rocks sliding at first, then chunks from the rock wall began to break off. They tumbled down at us, threatening to crush us or push us off the slope of the mountain. As they fell, I had to focus on keeping my footing, getting away from my enemy, and avoid being crushed. He gave chase of course, but he was much less concerned about the rock. He started to run at me. The first rock that hit him was about the size of my head. Got him square in the knee. He slipped with the loose rock, barely finding purchase. The next thing I knew, he was calling out to me, begging me to help him. He was crying, there was blood on the rocks where his leg was.

"I didn't even have time to make a decision before the boulder hit him. It landed directly on his head. The boulder bounced away and I was left staring at a puddle of blood and skull and brain. He was there and then he wasn't. Just like that. The rocks stopped falling immediately after that, the Game Makers I suspect. But there was still loose rock under his body, and his body just slowly started to slide down the mountain. I watched him go. I watched the chunks of his brain still attached to his spine drag through the blood. I watched as he was put out of his misery."

I stare at Hodge, absolutely horrified. Imogen had been right: Hodge's victory had been a fluke. It had also been bloody, perfect entertainment value for the audience.

Hodge turns away from the window and faces me. The moon illuminates half of his face and the candle casts shadows over the other half. "You see? It's better to die in the Trial. Sooner rather than later. There are no victors in the Trials."


	5. Flight

**Hi, everyone! So I meant to upload a chapter yesterday, but (stupid) people like to get in the way of my plans. I didn't want to leave y'all hanging before Christmas, so I hastily threw this chapter together just to give you something. I was really time-constrained so it's not my best work. I'm hoping to make the next chapter as intense as possible, now that we've entered the Trial. I hope you enjoy it! Thank you for your patience, and happy holidays, readers! Love you all!**

* * *

It's silent in the Institute when I wake. Eerily so. The soft padding of my bare feet across the floor is almost thunderous. I slip on a pair of sweats and a sweater before I sneak out into the hallway. The quiet follows me as I descend the staircase. It is almost predatory; stalking me, waiting to strike.

It appears I am the only one who is awake. That or no one else has the courage or strength to get out of bed and face tomorrow's reality. Considering it's still quite early, I assume everyone is still asleep. I cross the foyer and open the front door. Poking my head out into the brisk morning air, I look up and down Tribute Square. The street is completely deserted. Even the Capitol fanatics at the border have disappeared. Probably turned away by Peacekeepers to give the Tributes one final day of peace.

A small part of me wonders how far I would get if I ran. There are only two Peacekeepers in immediate sight, and they are probably under orders to use non-violent intervention protocols on flight-risk Tributes. I'm a strong runner, but even if I do escape there's no guarantee the Capitol will not punish Isabelle or my parents simply because they are my blood. I cannot fathom what they would do to me if I was caught trying to escape. Execution? A public whipping? Worse?

As if sensing my gaze, one of the Peacekeepers turns to face me. I cannot see the pair of eyes hiding behind the helmet, but I feel the warning stare nonetheless. A buzz runs through my body, snapping all my nerves and muscles to alertness. Slowly, I back into the Institute and close the door. I shuffle up the stairs and retreat to my room. Once there, I look around helplessly for something to occupy my wandering mind. I doubt any of the books in the study contain anything other than survival tips, and I don't dare watch the television boasting the festivities for tomorrow's Trial. With a sigh, I trudge into the bathroom and strip out of my clothes.

The water is already warm the second I turn on the shower, but my hand yanks back out of habit. Be it for drinking or bathing, water is always cold in Twelve. Cautiously, I step under the gentle spray of water and allow my muscles to relax under the warmth and gathering steam. Greedily, I turn the nozzle and immediately feel the rising temperature. The heat is enough to turn my skin pink. A relieved sigh escapes me, and for the smallest moment none of my troubles exist. The Trials have been abolished, the criticisms of my parents no longer occupy the space in my head, and Magnus Bane is not an enigma.

I open my eyes and blink water droplets from my eyelashes. Yet again the male Tribute from District Two has wriggled into my thoughts. I know Isabelle has warned me not to trust him, and I intend to follow her advice, but there is the smallest part of me that doubts my sister's judgement. I cannot tell if my heart is deceiving my head, but I have an inkling that there is something more to Magnus Bane. He is like a book missing its final pages; his story has led me astray multiple times, and without the final words I cannot ascertain who he is.

My thoughts begin to drift and I suddenly find myself wondering what Magnus will think of me when he sees me covered in dirt and grime and scrapes and scratches in the Trial. There's a gleaming silver wire shelving unit adhered to the wall of the shower, and my hand darts out and snatches a bottle from tidy row of soaps. The name is in a different language so I don't bother trying to pronounce it, but the English writing on the back promises the removal of unsightly skin blemishes with only one usage. I squirt some of the soap into my hand and begin lathering it across my chest and down my arms. The scent of wet grass after a rainfall floods my nostrils. I take my time cleansing the rest of my body, scrubbing my skin roughly as if good hygiene could repel the dirt in my near future. I'm rinsing a different soap from my hair when I notice the bruises from yesterday's training session have miraculously disappeared. I test my muscles and find them free of aches. Although I am honestly impressed, I find myself rolling my eyes at my newly healed body. It makes me realize just how spoiled and unlearned the Capitol people are; never desperate for anything and never suffering through the smallest of bruises.

There is a pile of fluffy blue towels at the ready when I finally step out of the shower. I count five of them folded neatly one on top of the other, but, as it's always been in Twelve, I only take what I need. Once my skin is dry, I dress in my sweater and sweat pants again. I'm scrubbing the towel against my wet hair when I step out of the bathroom.

Isabelle is sitting on the edge of my bed. Her unexpected presence nearly makes me fall over. I'm glad I chose to dress before exiting the bathroom, though I'm not sure my sister would have noticed anyway. Her eyes are pasted on the television screen across from her. Her posture is rigid and there's a greenish tint to her skin. I glance at the screen just in time to see one boy pounce onto the back of a younger boy. The elder of the two then begins to stab the struggling body beneath him with a knife. Blood and chunks of flesh fly in every direction, and the younger boy's screams escalate before suddenly choking off.

I rush forward and snatch the silver remote out of Isabelle's hand. My finger sweeps over the power button and the screen winks out. I whirl on my sister, ready to scold her until I'm blue in the face, but her expression turns me silent. Isabelle, always strong and steady, is petrified. The sickly tint from her face has faded but she is still visibly shaken. She wraps her arms around herself and looks down at the floor.

"I won't kill anyone," she says resolutely.

I crouch down in front of her. "We don't have to kill anyone. All we have to do is survive."

Her uncertain eyes find mine. "We will survive, won't we?"

I reach up and hug her. "District Twelve will have its victor." _I'll bet my life on it._

* * *

Isabelle and I spend the majority of the day studying tips and tools from a mountain of books she hauled from the study to the training room upstairs. She is on her third volume of medical care when I can hear the grinding of her teeth from across the room. I glance up from the tome in my lap and see her tapping her fingers against her thigh. She's restless and anxious. An idea springs to life, one I have not thought about in ages. I hope I remember. . .

Isabelle looks up sharply as I tear a page out of the book I'm reading. Her expression is a giant question mark, but I only hold up my index finger, silently instructing her to wait. My fingers find their memory easily, and after ripping the page into a square, I begin deftly folding into smaller squares and triangles. After several minutes and folding, cursing, backtracking, and folding again, I hold up a slightly lopsided but distinguishable paper crane. A smile breaks out on Isabelle's face and she rips a page out of her own book and hands it to me, begging me to show her again. My hands are steadier and my folds are more precise the second time around. Isabelle copies my movements the third time; she's biting her lip in concentration but the teeth grinding and shaking fingers have stopped. For now she is at ease.

Soon enough Isabelle is folding effortlessly. A pile of cranes beside us grows steadily larger and larger. For a moment I feel guilty for destroying books that do not belong to us, but I remember Isabelle holding up her middle finger to Imogen and I smile. It feels good to destroy something of the Capitol's.

"Remember when you first showed me one of these?" Isabelle asks suddenly.

I look up from my square. Her smile is that of a resurrected fond memory. Clearly she and I remember that day very differently. It was a few years ago on her birthday. I'd given her a paper crane made out of crisp, pink paper. Her eyes had brightened and she'd clapped her hands excitedly, announcing how pretty she thought it was. I'd found a book at school shoved at the back of the bookshelf; it was filled with colorful illustrations. Just after the front cover was a purple page and just before the back cover was a pink page. I'd figured nobody would miss those two, so I'd ripped them out after the classroom had cleared at the end of the day.

"It's so pretty, Alec!" she'd squealed. "Where did you get it?"

"I made it. My teacher showed us how to make them a few days ago. She said people used to make them years and years ago. The crane symbolizes long life, happiness, peace, and good luck."

"Will you show me how?"

I'd pulled out the purple paper and instructed her patiently on what to do. The end result was a crooked, wrinkled version of my crane, but Isabelle's smile had been unwavering. She'd thanked me for the gift, gathered her two cranes, and scurried away to her room. I'd been heading toward my own room when my father stopped me. His hand squeezed my shoulder hard enough to make me flinch.

"If I catch you wasting your time on queer crafts again, I'll beat you until my knuckles are raw. Got it?"

I'd only had the strength to nod. I'd loved that one small talent, but from that point forward I only folded at school, and only when I was bored and no one was around. I'd leave them in odd places around the school: on a dusty windowsill, between the pages of a book, hidden by the leg of a desk. Never again did I see one in my own house, not even the ones I'd given Isabelle.

"I'm surprised you remember how to do this," Isabelle chirps, snapping me out of my reverie. "I thought you'd given up on it long ago."

I smile sadly. "Sometimes your fingers forget, but your heart never does. Do you think we have enough?"

Her eyebrows furrow in confusion. My grin broadens and I shift onto my knees. Curving my arms into scoops, I gather a small section of the pile we've created and rise to my feet. A couple cranes escape from my arms and flutter to the floor. Isabelle follows my lead and collects the rest of the pile into her own arms. When she's standing we both start counting aloud from ten. We both shout "One!" and toss the cranes into the air. They rain down over us in a cloud of wings and beaks, pattering against the padded floor in a soothing shushing noise. Isabelle is giggling by the time the last of them have fallen; there's one crane stuck in her hair. I reach out and pluck it free, but instead of tossing it aside I hand it to her.

"Long life," I remind her.

"And good luck."

"What on earth. . ."

Isabelle and I both turn to find Imogen standing in the open doorway, staring at the mess in wide-eyed horror. Her gaze lingers on the now-flimsy and empty book covers scattered across the floor, but she wisely says nothing about them. She takes a moment to compose herself, clears her throat, and says, "Dinner is ready, if you'd like to join us."

Neither Isabelle nor I miss the last word. Hodge has decided to finally join us for dinner. It _is_ a special occasion after all. Our final meal together. I offer Isabelle a wink and follow Imogen downstairs to the dining room. True to her word, our mentor is already seated at the table. Hodge's hands are twitching in his lap and he looks uncomfortable until he realizes he is no longer alone. Imogen sits beside Hodge while we seat ourselves across from them. Before we can begin, Imogen raises her wine glass in a toast.

"The best of luck to you tomorrow, Lightwoods. _Ave atque vale,_ " she announces.

The three of us raise our glasses in response and after a quick drink we begin to fill our plates. The cooks have not slackened their efforts for our final meal. There is every type of meat imaginable before us: beef, chicken, turkey, ham, deer, lamb, and duck. There are three different types of salads, four different types of potatoes, two trays of fruit and vegetables, two pots of soup, and several platters of assorted desserts. Isabelle makes her way around the table, sampling everything. I load my plate with heaps of only my favorites. As much as the desserts tempt me, I opt for fruit to avoid an upset stomach. I'm going to need all the sleep I can get tonight.

Dinner lasts well after nightfall. It's Imogen who instructs us to get to bed before it gets too late. She tries to seem chipper about our "big day tomorrow," but I can see her lip quivering as she speaks. This surprises me. I can't help but wonder if it's all for show, but the unexpected hug she gives to both Isabelle and me feels genuine enough. Our mentor and representative scurry up to their appropriate rooms while Isabelle and I lag behind, lumbering up the stairs to delay the unavoidable for just a bit longer. Isabelle stops in front of her room and squares her shoulders.

"It's going to be all right." She's looking at me, but I know she's talking to herself.

"Of course it is," I agree. "Twelve will have its victor, remember?"

"Victor _s_ ," she corrects me. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Of course." I wrap her in my arms and squeeze her tightly. When I release her, Isabelle lets out a long breath and steps into her room. She offers a weak smile just before the door closes. I wait for the receding of her footsteps before backtracking down the hall and down the stairs. I make my way to the front door and quietly slip outside, closing the door behind me. The cool night air slips through the stitching of my sweater and raises bumps along my arms. With a shiver, I sit down on the top step and stare up into the sky. There's noise in the distance; the Capitol is still celebrating the eve of the Trial. My lip curls in disgust.

I'm not alone for long. I guess about a half hour has passed when I hear the familiar noise of a door opening and closing. My eyes flick to District Two's Institute and I catch a recognizable figure approaching. Magnus is halfway across the street when I get up. I'm in no mood for his jibes, but I linger on the top step anyway. Why he would bother at this time of night is beyond me.

It catches me off guard when Magnus pauses on the curb. His uncovered eye meets my gaze, and without a word he turns and sits down on the sidewalk. I watch him, leery. The street is clear of any other Tributes, and all the windows in the Institutes are dark. We are alone. Eyes still on Magnus, I sit down again on the top step and wait.

We sit silently for a long time, watching the moon creep across the sky. I've relaxed in Magnus's presence, even though his purpose for sitting near me is still unclear. It's peaceful between us, almost . . . enjoyable. I wonder if he can feel my eyes on him, tracing over the exposed curve of his neck, watching the movement of muscles in his arms when he leans back on them, measuring the breadth of his sculpted shoulders.

He must feel my watchful stare because he suddenly gets to his feet. The movement startles me and I'm standing in the blink of an eye, expecting an attack. Magnus extends his arms upward in a stretch and his shirt rises up, revealing a strip of skin. I only catch a glimpse of his hip, but it's enough to make me weak in the knees. He turns and climbs the first stair of my Institute. I brace myself, waiting for the lash of his sharp tongue, but he only extends his hand.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Twelve?"

His tone is polite and almost . . . hopeful. Confused, I stare at his hand for a moment until I hesitantly reach out and shake it. Before I let go, I say, "Not if I can help it."

Magnus turns away, but not before I see the grin spreading across his lips. I've amused him. The realization makes my heart soar, but I don't dare to dwell on it. I wait long enough for Magnus to reach his own Institute before I head back inside. Quietly I make my way up to my room, climb into bed, and curl into a ball. I expect sleep to elude me, but I easily drift off when I close my eyes and think about the person who'd been sitting next to me.

* * *

I wake up to soft knocking at my door. My body jolts upright and I expect a hair, makeup, and wardrobe team to flood my room, but when the door opens only Hodge enters. His face is grim and his eyes are red. He looks like he hasn't had a wink of sleep. In his outstretched arms in a pile of folded black material. When he steps forward and extends them to me, his head his bowed like he's making a sacrifice. I get out of bed and accept the offering with a look of confusion.

"You have ten minutes," Hodge says.

I nod, understanding at once. Carrying the pile with one arm, I slip into the bathroom and begin unfolding the material. It's a t-shirt and a pair of pants. The shirt is soft and light when I change into it; the pants are made of a thicker material but still flexible and comfortable. Without wasting time, I set to work washing my face, brushing my teeth, and fixing my hair to the best of my abilities. I take a final moment to look at myself in the mirror, to commit my reflection to memory so I don't forget who I am in the Trial. When I get out of the bathroom, Hodge is waiting with a pair of boots and socks. I slip them on hastily, taking care to do the laces on the boots up properly. They're light but sturdy, extending up to mid-calf and black in color. I adjust my pant legs over the boots and stand up. Hodge looks me over from eyes to feet to eyes again.

"You ready?" he asks.

I shake my head. "No."

He smiles in understanding and gestures to the door. When I step into the hall I notice Isabelle's door is open but she's not in it. Hodge reads my expression and explains that Imogen has already taken Isabelle to the deportation aircraft waiting outside. I don't respond, keeping my eyes forward and focusing on remaining steady on my feet. We descend the staircase and find the front door propped open. I squint in the morning light as we step outside. The whirring of the aircraft stationed at the end of the block draws my attention. I don't bother to look around; everyone else has already boarded. Hodge follows closely behind as we make our way to the giant machine.

A walkway has been lowered for us and one Peacekeeper stands next to it. He or she holds a gun at the ready. I swallow past the lump in my throat and climb the steep walkway. The aircraft is larger than it looks; the remaining twenty-three Tributes and their representatives and mentors are all seated comfortably on the left and right. A slim hand goes into the air and I spot Imogen waving us over. There are two empty seats beside her; I sit in the seat on her left and Hodge sits beside me. He seems incredibly anxious in the space of the aircraft, but I can't muster the sympathy to care. I stare at my boots as they raise the platform and take off with a jolt. Two women begin injecting the Tributes with our trackers. These will let the Game Makers know exactly where we are and exactly when we die. The insertion is painful and I spend the rest of the trip avoiding the quickest glance at my arm, as if catching sight of the tracker is an omen.

The aircraft lands all too quickly. My muscles tense as the machine gives a lurch and the engines quiet down. Hodge nudges me with his arm and I jump to my feet. Everyone else lines up behind us as we disembark. The aircraft has pulled into a hangar so we can't see the arena waiting for us. Off to the left of the aircraft are twelve doors, each labelled clearly. Hodge steers me toward number twelve, and my blood grows colder with every step. The doorway leads to a long hallway, which splits off into two more doors. I suddenly wonder how big the hangar is and the thought makes me bark out a laugh. Hodge looks down at me but says nothing.

We pass through the doorway marked with my name, and just beyond a short walkway is a circular room. There's a large tube extending from floor to ceiling off to the side. Opposite from that is a table, which has been bolted to the floor. I wonder who tried to use such a thing as a last-minute weapon. Spread on the table is a jacket folded lengthwise and a small backpack. Without a word, Hodge passes by me and picks up the jacket. I turn around, slide my arms into the sleeves, and hastily do up the zipper. The material is light and breathable. My palms are starting to sweat as Hodge grabs the backpack and hands it to me. I begin to open it but my mentor sets his hand on mine, stilling me.

"There's no time to look through it now," he whispers. His eyes dart over to the tube.

I follow his gaze and slip my arms through the shoulder straps of the pack. The material settles nicely against the middle of my back. It feels light enough, but when I bounce on my feet I can hear several objects jostle inside. I move toward the open cylinder but Hodge grabs my wrist.

"Run for cover," he reminds me. "Don't go after the weapons." He pauses and for a moment I think he is going to embrace me, but then he just squeezes my shoulder. " _Ave_."

I nod and turn away, starting for the tube. A light flashes as I step inside and there's a hissing noise as the clear door slides shut, locking in place. I start counting the minutes that pass in my head. Hodge is speaking to me, but I can't hear what he's saying through the tube. Maybe he's praying for me. The tube gives a jolt and another hiss just as I reach the eighth minute. The floor moves under me and suddenly I'm rising up, floating through the air. I pass through the ceiling and up farther until there's a suddenly blinding burst of sunlight. I blink frantically and there's a breath of air against my face; it's warm and humid. My eyes finally adjust and I gasp at the landscape before me.

The cornucopia is dead ahead, filled with an array of weapons gleaming in the sun. I feel a rush of adrenaline, one that makes me want to race straight for it and grab every sword, knife, and arrow I can carry. The thought dissipates as I notice the surrounding tree line. There are massive trees everywhere, vines draped through their branches. Shrubs and leafy plants carpet the soil beneath them. The cover the vegetation provides is suddenly much more alluring than the cornucopia.

The number twenty suddenly appears above the structure. It hovers briefly before beginning the countdown. I look around frantically for Isabelle. I spot her about three pedestals to the right. Her hair is secured in a ponytail and she's looking directly at the cornucopia, determination in her eyes. I will her to look at me, not daring to shout her name. She finally does and I shake my head, flicking my eyes to the trees. She nods and bounces on the balls of her feet. I turned back to the cornucopia and prepare myself to run.

 _Ten._

 _Nine._

 _Eight._

 _Seven._

 _Six._

 _Five._

 _Four._

 _Three._

 _Two._

 _One._

A wave of Tributes rushes forward while I leap backward off my pedestal. I'm dashing for the tree line off on my right, hoping to collect Isabelle and seek cover. A couple of the younger Tributes whiz by me, desperate for refuge. My head snaps around in search of my sister and I find her instantly. She's racing straight for the cornucopia. I swear out loud and slide on the grass as I make a sudden turn in direction. I'm trying to keep a wide berth from the other Tributes running for weapons, but Isabelle is at the front of the pack. She'll be surrounded soon enough, and it'll take everything she's got to fight her way out.

Two boys get in a scuffle in front of me. I run around them and collide with another Tribute making a break for the trees. I manage to keep my footing, but she falls to the ground, hard. I leave her and take off again. Another figure steps in my path just a few feet away. He throws back his arm and whips it forward. I see the dark handle of the knife just in time to duck and it flies over me harmlessly. The figure remains in my way, but it appears he's out of weapons. As I'm running, I slip my backpack from my shoulders and grip it tightly in one hand. As I draw nearer, I recognize the Tribute with dark hair and a crooked nose. It's Sebastian from District Six. His lips are pulled into a snarl and he lunges at me. Before he can so much as touch me, I throw all my weight into a swing at his head. The backpack connects squarely with the side of his face. My pack is light, but something metal inside cracks audibly against Sebastian's skull and he topples over with a grunt.

I've barely run passed my fallen opponent when I'm suddenly tackled from the left. The air rushes out of my lungs as I hit the ground hard. The backpack falls from my hand and I'm swinging at my attacker, aiming punches at the face I do not recognize. He wraps his hands around my throat and squeezes. I barely register that he's choking me before the Tribute's grip goes slack. I struggle out from underneath him just before he collapses face-first to the ground. A large hunting knife protrudes from the back of his neck. I glance up but everyone nearby appears to be engaged in one fight or another. Faces are a blur in the screaming and shouting and clashing of bodies.

I quickly snatch my backpack and slide it on, and before I stand up I yank the hunting knife free of the dead Tribute's neck. A quick scan of the area reveals no sign of Isabelle. I don't think she's fighting anyone and I don't dare to check the bodies littering the ground. Without wasting another minute, I turn and dash for the trees. There's a whistling behind me and something flies past my ear. A throwing knife hits the trunk of the closest tree. I keep running.

I quickly realize I haven't stumbled into a forest like I'd anticipated. The arena is more of a jungle, the cornucopia in a clearing at its centre. The ground is uneven and woven with roots and vines. I lose my footing several times, but no one jumps me from behind. I can't tell if anyone has given chase yet, but I don't plan on remaining visible long enough to find out.

I stop and glance around wildly, trying to get my bearings. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a patch of darkness against one of the trees. It looks just large enough to squeeze into. My breath bursts out of me in rapid pants as I rush for the tree. Just as I crouch down to measure the hole, something moves inside. I suck in a breath and raise my knife. There's another rustle of movement and then I suddenly find myself staring into a pair of eyes, one blue-green and one gold.

 _Mark Blackthorn._

Recognition floods the Tribute's eyes, but the terror remains in them. He watches me carefully, paying special attention to my weapon. He, himself, appears to be unarmed.

Distant voices echo around us. I can't interpret how close they are or what direction they're coming from, but I know I need to find shelter elsewhere. Keeping my voice low, I say, "Stay here and keep quiet. They won't find you here."

Mark's head cocks to the side, almost as though he hasn't understood a word I've said, but he gives the smallest nod after a moment. I survey the area quickly before taking off deeper into the jungle. More than once I see the shadow of another Tribute pass between the trees and I change my direction. All too soon I feel my adrenaline begin to wear off, and my muscles begin to ache. I slow to a stop and circle around, hoping for another hollowed-out trunk. I don't find one. As I'm catching my breath, I tilt my head back and close my eyes, willing myself to calm down. When I open them, something flickers in my chest. There's a thick-trunked tree beside me with extra-wide leaves. If I can climb high enough and find a sturdy branch, the leaves will provide perfect cover. Undaunted by the task, I hurry over to the tree and search for footholds. I manage to find holes and knobs that get me high enough to reach the first branch. It's sturdy enough but I'm still too close to the ground. Moving slow to keep my balance, I climb to the nearest branch. I go just high enough that I'm confident in my camouflage. Leaning my back against the trunk, I sit down and spread my legs out in front of me. When I regain my breath, I carefully slide my backpack free of my shoulders and quietly unzip it. The first thing I find is a metal water bottle. I shake it and hear the glorious slosh of liquid inside. Opening it I take one greedy gulp and immediately close it again. I haven't stumbled across a water source yet, so I'll have to conserve what I have. A smirk spreads my lips as I recall whacking Sebastian in the head. My water is keeping me alive in more ways than one.

Inside the pack I also find a small rolled-up piece of material, an unlabelled bottle of gray tablets, and a small bag of assorted nuts. I pull three almonds from the mix and chew them slowly. Sweat beads my forehead and creeps down my neck. The air is thick and hot up in the tree, which only makes me more eager to climb down and continue looking for Isabelle. Her disappearance at the cornucopia concerns me, but in my heart I know she is still alive. If she is, others will be looking for her. I just hope I find her first.


	6. The Hunted

_**Hello, everyone! Hope you all had a fantastic Christmas and are enjoying the New Year! I'm pleased to say we will start seeing some Malec in the chapter following this one. Please try to remember that. . . because ya'll won't be too happy with me by the end of this one. Happy reading! Love you all!**_

* * *

A trickle of sweat is creeping down the back of my neck. Another slips down my temple and traces a path down to my jawbone. Both of them tickle my feverish skin. My hair is plastered to my forehead and my shirt is clinging to my skin in the heat. My jacket is tucked away in my backpack; I'd debated getting rid of it all together, but I knew the Capitol wouldn't have bothered to give the Tributes jackets if they were not necessary. The jungle is sweltering in the day, but night could be a different story. Even without a jacket, I've had about all I can take up in the tree. Short of stripping nude, it isn't possible for me to cool down in the close-knit tangle of vines, branches, and leaves. I need to climb down and find a better location, closer to the cool ground. After I find Isabelle, of course.

My palms are sweaty, making it difficult to keep my grip on other branches as I slowly begin to climb down. My ears strain for any noise announcing the presence of unwanted visitors. Twice I have to freeze my movements and listen hard for the hurried footsteps I think I hear nearby. I'm almost reaching for the bottom branch when a scream pierces through the hazy heat. Slowly I bring my extended leg back up and curl it beneath me. The branch I'm crouched on is thick, but it groans slightly beneath my concentrated weight. Before I can get myself stretched out, the thudding of swift footfalls catches my ears. Quickly after I hear the desperate, panicked breaths of the runner. A girl, I think. And she's not alone. Someone else's footsteps are chasing hers.

The gaps between the large leaves has widened beneath me, and through them I spot a slender girl. She's directly below me when her foot catches on an exposed root and she tumbles to the ground. She cries out and tries to get back up, but another figure suddenly appears behind her. All I can see is a head of blonde hair, and my thoughts automatically connect to Jace. But it can't be Jace because he wouldn't be hunting on his own; Clary, Camille, and Magnus would be with him, partaking on the fun. I glance around but I can neither see nor hear anyone else.

The blonde stomps his foot down on the girl's back and she screams, "No! Please!" In response, he readjusts something in his hand, crouches down, and punches his fist into the girl's side. She screams and he pulls his hand away. Blood follows what I now realize is a knife in the boy's hand. He stabs her again in the side, then readjusts the blade once more and begins plunging the knife into her back. I have to reach up and clasp my hand over my mouth to keep silent, though I doubt the boy would be able to hear me over the girl's shrieks. Over and over he jabs the blade into her slight body, focusing on her back and sides. I realize quickly he is not aiming his blows to kill; he is aiming his blows to torture, to make her feel as much pain as possible before her death. As her screams and struggling grow weaker, he grabs a fistful of her hair, yanks her head back, and makes one clean slice across the front of her throat. I bite down on my palm as she makes a gurgling noise and collapses forward. The boy stands up and I can see the mutilated flesh of the girl's back. Her body twitches a couple times before falling completely still. The boy nudges the toe of his boot under her hip and rolls her onto her back. Her eyes are wide open and directly on me when she flips over. Terror rushes through me when I realize her gaze might give me away, but I quickly recognize that she is dead. The boy stares down at the girl for several minutes before turning around and starting back in the direction the two of them had come from.

I wait a little longer after the sound of his footsteps fade away and then begin to climb down. The moment my boots hit the ground, I walk around the tree —away from the girl— and head in the opposite direction of the boy. I try not to think about the girl and her unseeing eyes and slit throat, blood soaking her clothes and the ground around her. Whoever that boy is, he is not someone I want to cross paths with. He is a Tribute who doesn't see this as a Trial, but as a game. And obviously he thrives in a game where rules don't exist and brutality is a crowd-pleaser.

* * *

The sun has moved lower in the west and the temperature has begun to drop, but the slow death of the heat is a small victory. I've been wandering for most of the day and I still have not found Isabelle. The arena stretches for miles and I have no idea if I'm even going in the right direction; she could be on the other side of the jungle, fighting for her life, and I wouldn't even be able to hear her.

So far I haven't stumbled across another Tribute, not one in eyesight anyway. Either they're all in hiding or I'm being stalked by an expert in stealth. Paranoid, I look over my shoulder and scan the vegetation. Nothing. Just as I turn around, I hear a soft rustling. I whip around and see some shrubs stirring nearby. They fall still and then sway again. My mind dismisses the thought to investigate. Whoever, or _whatever_ , is hiding in those shrubs is not relying on surprise to win a battle.

Swallowing hard, I slowly back away in a different direction, never letting my eyes stray from the rustling plants. Nothing leaps out from them, and when I reach a safe distance I turn around and hurry off deeper into the maze of trees. I haven't gotten far when I catch a shadow dashing between two trees up ahead. My feet halt in their tracks and I tense. The person is hiding behind a tree, waiting for me to get close. For a moment I consider going back and avoiding a fight, but I can't bear the thought of losing ground retreating when I need to move forward to find Isabelle.

Quickly, I pull my knife out of my backpack and hold it firmly in my hand. I'm light on my feet as I carefully tread closer to the tree shielding my attacker. The soft soil absorbs the sound of my cautious footfalls. I guess the attacker will be watching for me on his or her left, so I go around the tree to approach from the right. My pulse is hammering in my throat as I touch the rough surface of the tree's trunk, take a deep breath, and jump out.

The element of surprise does not linger. By the time I've raised my knife, the figure has turned and I find a notched arrow pointed at my face. Adrenaline brings the sharpened point of the arrowhead into clear perspective, and I briefly wonder if it will hurt when it plunges into the spot between my eyes. But the arrow never fires. Instead it falls away as the bow is lowered.

"Alec?"

I look up and there she is. The first Tribute I've been prepared to kill is my sister. Our weapons fall to the jungle floor and Isabelle is in my arms. I give her a squeeze before holding her at arm's length and thoroughly examining her.

"Are you all right?" I question. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," she assures me. "Are you okay?"

I let out a relieved breath. "Yeah, now that I've found you. I've been looking for you for hours. Why did you bail on the plan? You were supposed to run to the tree line, not the cornucopia."

With a huff, Isabelle crouches down and picks up her bow and arrow. She waves them pointedly before shoving the arrow back into the quiver peeking over her shoulder. "When have I ever done what I'm told?"

I bend down and pick up my knife to hide my smile. She looks at the weapon then at me and raises an eyebrow. "It was sticking out of a dead Tribute's neck. I saw the opportunity and took it."

Isabelle nods. "Have you seen any stray Tributes wandering around?"

I think of Mark Blackthorn hiding in the tree, and the other Tribute brutally murdering the girl he'd been chasing. "The boy from Eight, and two I'm not sure about. One of them is dead."

"I think a lot more than one are dead."

I offer my most encouraging smile. "But we're not."

Isabelle's return smile is confident. "No. We're not. But if we keep standing out here in the open that might change."

"Have you found any water?"

"Yeah. There's a stream not too far from here."

"Let's head back that way, find some shelter on the way. We'll rest for tonight and come up with a plan tomorrow.

My sister puts her hand on her hip. "Who put you in charge?"

"I'm older."

"I have a bow."

"I have a knife."

"So do I." She reaches behind her and pats the bottom of her backpack. "I grabbed it for you, but I see you've already got one."

I waggle the knife in my hand and indicate for her to lead the way. She walks sure-footedly, as if she's been wandering through this jungle her entire life. When I'm not busy trying to avoid stumbling over roots and vines, I'm checking over my shoulder to make sure we're not being followed. The two of us don't speak as we walk; we don't want to announce our whereabouts to anyone lurking in the near vicinity.

The sun is just beginning to set when we finally reach the stream. It's shallow and quiet on the jungle floor, but I find the sight peaceful. It's a beacon of hope in this hostile environment. I crouch down and stretch my hand out to the water. My fingers touch the cool surface and a shiver runs down my spine. I would have thrown myself into it earlier, but since the intensity of the heat has calmed down I no longer have the desire to be cold and wet.

"Do you need a drink?" Isabelle asks.

"No, my water bottle is still half full. I'll fill up when I run out." I wipe my fingers on my pants and straighten.

"Same here. What do you propose we do about shelter?"

"I thought staying closer to the ground would be a good choice, but if it keeps cooling down. . ."

"We could light a fire."

I make a face. "Are you stupid or something?"

Isabelle laughs. "I was kidding, you walnut. Of course we're not going to light a damn fire at night."

I roll my eyes and glance up. "How do you feel about sleeping in a tree?"

She shrugs. "Something tells me I'll regret it in the morning, but for now it seems like an excellent idea."

We have to do a bit of wandering before we can find an adequate tree for the both of us to climb. Isabelle climbs on one side while I wait a bit before following her up on the opposite side. We stick to the lower branches; not only are they sturdier but they'll allow us a safe distance to drop if we need to make a hasty escape. I can hear Isabelle squirming around trying to get comfortable, followed by the rustle of unidentifiable objects and her cursing under the breath.

"What the hell are you doing over there?" I hiss.

"Here. Take this." A thin coil of rope lands across my lap, making me jump. "Throw the other end back to me."

I find the end, give it a couple feet of slack and, leaning carefully to the side, toss it back to her so the rope encircles us. It slowly tightens around me and I hear the soft murmur of the rope as Isabelle ties it into a knot.

"There," she says quietly. "Now we won't take a tumble in our sleep."

"You got rope in your pack? That's handy."

"And a flint and some water." Her voice is proud. "What did you get?"

"Water, these weird little tablets, a towel, and a small bag of food."

Isabelle makes a choking noise. "You got food and you didn't even offer me any? Hand it over, you twat."

Grinning, I slip the pack free of one shoulder and rifle through it. When I find the bag, I reach my arm around the tree until I feel her grab it. I can hear her chewing softly but when she hands the bag back it feels no less heavy than before. She's only take a few nuts from the top of the pile.

"What do you mean you got a towel?" she asks.

"I don't really know what it is. It's just this soft material all rolled up."

"Maybe it's a blanket."

I scrunch up my eyebrows, even though she can't see me. "Pretty small to be a blanket."

"Bigger than the one I got."

I smile and lean my head back against the tree trunk. It's dark now and it's growing steadily colder. The frigidity is clinging to the humidity, dropping the temperature that much faster. My clothes are still damp with sweat and now the material feels almost frosty. I find myself relieved that I hadn't gotten rid of my jacket. I pull it out of my backpack and slip it on backwards so the part that normally covers my back now covers my chest.

A thunderous canon shot suddenly assaults the night, startling me. Another one goes off shortly after, catching me off guard again. By the fifth one I've calmed down, and I count twelve shots in total. I completely forgot about the canons the Capitol fires to signify the daily total number of Tribute deaths. Half of us are already gone. Ten more need to die before Isabelle and I are safe.

"It's going to be a short Trial this year," Isabelle muses.

I settle back against the tree and close my eyes. "Goodnight, Izzy." That's all I can say, because I can't admit to her how close my end really is.

* * *

An audible _thunk_ from below startles me awake. I glance around, confused, before remembering I'm up in a tree. I look down and spot Isabelle hop away from the base of the trunk and start forward to retrieve the arrow in the ground. Speared to it is a small bird, which Isabelle removes with a sharp yank. She turns and looks up, directly at me.

"Breakfast?" she asks, lifting the dead bird.

I groan and start to remove the rope around me when I realize it's already gone. My back aches in protest as I begin to climb down. Isabelle is plucking the bird as I stretch my sore muscles. Her work is efficient and unhesitant, even when she begins to gut the animal.

"Do I want to know how you're so good at this?" I ask.

"I read a picture book," she answers simply. "Grab my flint and start a fire, would you?"

"With what?"

"Find some wood. Don't use leaves; they'll smoke too much."

I grumble to myself and meander around in search of dead branches. There aren't many on the jungle floor, but I manage to find a few. Enough for a small fire. I bring them back to Izzy and grab her flint, then, using my knife to strike it, I set to work igniting a flame. A mouthful of curses comes out before I'm able to get a spark to catch, and by then Isabelle already has the small amount of meat divided up and speared on two sticks. We roast the meat over the flame until it's browned nicely, then let the fire die out as we eat. The meat is strange and bland, not at all like the Capitol meals, but filling all the same.

Isabelle adjusts her backpack and quiver and watches as I stomp out the last of the burning embers. "So what's the plan?"

I hesitate, because I haven't actually formulated a plan yet. "I thought we'd explore a bit, get a better layout of the area. Maybe we can set a few traps. Keeping an eye out for the Careers would be a good idea."

" _Explore_?" Isabelle scoffs. "You make it sound like we're on a fucking vacation. But setting some traps is smart. What are we going to use?"

I stare at her. "Your rope?"

"Luckily," she glares at me, "I read different ways to make traps using flexible strips of bark or vines."

"I'll let you take care of it, then. Shall we?"

She starts walking, her bow in hand. "It's a good thing I found you, Alexander."

" _I_ found _you_ ," I argue.

"That's debatable."

But we don't debate it. We walk in silence again, alert for any sights or sounds that are out of place. Not far away, insects buzz around the bones and organs of what's left of a small animal. Isabelle and I share a look; someone else has been here recently. We haven't seen anyone so far, but the morning is still young.

The day's heat erases the night's chill within a matter of hours. I am sweating through my shirt when we stop for our first break to hydrate and chew a couple nuts each. My jacket finds its way into my backpack again and I sacrifice a small splash of water onto the back of my neck. Isabelle is busy testing the flexibility and strength of a thin vine while I keep watch. She turns to me and parts her lips to speak when we hear it: laughter in the distance. I jump to my feet and look around wildly. Whoever it is isn't in sight. Yet. I don't want to run without knowing where the source of the sound is, lest we run directly into the threat.

Nearby is a small slope in the jungle floor. Vertical roots of a tree are exposed where the dirt has fallen away, creating a sort of dugout. I slide my backpack on, take Isabelle's hand, and pull her to the hiding spot. The laughter grows louder as we squeeze into the tight space. The thick roots obscure us, but if someone approaches from head-on, we'll be spotted.

"God it's hot," a voice says. It's coming from above us, at the top of the slope.

"Makes me want to take my shirt off," says another.

Someone laughs. A girl. "You're always looking for an excuse to take your shirt off."

"Don't act like you don't want me to." A pause. "Bane! Would you hurry your ass up?"

Isabelle tenses beside me and I feel my heart stop in my chest. Flecks of soil fall in front of us as the Career Pack walks overhead. We may have handled one Tribute, maybe two, but two against four is not a battle I'm willing to risk.

"Pick up the pace, would you?"

"Calm down. I'm searching for tracks." Magnus's voice is easily recognizable; it jolts my heart back to life.

"When did you become an expert huntsman?" Jace, I assume.

"Do you want to find them or not?"

"Relax. The scavengers are out here somewhere. There's four of us and two of them; we'll find them eventually."

"What if they're already dead?" I guess it to be Clary's voice.

Jace answers, "Then I'll be extremely disappointed that I didn't get to do it myself. We won't know for sure until we either find them or kill everyone else until it's only the four of us left."

"I can't wait to get my hands on the Lightwood bitch. I'm going to take my time with her." Camille. Isabelle's hand tightens around her bow.

"I wonder if Alexander's a screamer," Jace muses. "We could have some fun with him."

Their voices quiet as they walk away, but I'm positive I don't hear Magnus speak again. They are well out of earshot when I scramble out of the dugout. Isabelle takes my proffered hand and I pull her free. We both glance around before taking off in the opposite direction of the Careers. We're both flushed with exertion by the time we stop. Isabelle pulls out her water bottle and chugs two mouthfuls. I'm more careful with my supply; even though we know where the stream is, there's no guarantee we'll be able to get back to it today.

My knees start to shake so I lower myself to the ground. The Careers are hunting us specifically, and they're not interested in swift executions. I glance up at Isabelle, and now that she's caught her breath her face has started to pale. She's just as afraid as I am.

"What are we going to do?" she whispers.

I stand up and put my water bottle into my pack. "Nothing. We're going to wait them out. We won't necessarily have to face them all. One of them could get an infection or something and die."

Isabelle looks unconvinced but she nods. "It's a big arena, right? And we're headed in opposite directions."

"Exactly." I reach out and put my arm around her.

She gives me a one-armed hug back and steps away. "We should get moving. I want to put as much distance as possible between us and those freaks."

I nod and fall into step behind her. My eyelids begin to droop as I walk through the heat and listen to the lullaby of my boots on soil. Isabelle stops every so often and lifts her bow, her head snapping in one direction or another. She's on high alert. I pull out some nuts to chew to help keep me awake, and when I offer some to Isabelle she declines.

It's about midday when we reach an area that is less populated by trees and more dominated by tall grass and leafy plants reaching my mid-thigh. Isabelle's shoulders have relaxed in the time that has passed. She slows her pace to walk beside me and reaches into her coat pocket. When she pulls it out, I'm shocked to see a paper crane pinched between her fingers.

"Where did you get that?" I gasp.

"I snuck it in." Isabelle smiles. "It's not like it's a big deal; it's just a piece of paper. But I felt safer bringing it with me."

I grin. "No wonder you've been having such good luck."

"It's the first one you made that night at the Institute. I stole it from your pile when you weren't looking. I thought since it was the first one that it be the most powerful, that it would bring us good luck and long life."

Suddenly there's a loud rustling up ahead. Isabelle and I both stop and glance up. I hear a whoosh rush past my ear and then a _thunk_. I turn. Isabelle is staring straight ahead, and the handle of a throwing axe is resting on the gentle curve of her nose. The blade is embedded into the front of her skull. A trickle of dark blood paints her pale skin.

"Iz—" I choke out, my breath caught in my throat.

Her body rocks forward and she falls face-first into the grass. I stare down at her, my entire body numb and frozen in place, until the second axe is released. It goes wide and flies past me. Adrenaline shocks my body into action and I dive forward, hiding in the grass. I part the plants beside me and see Isabelle's face. Her head is turned toward me and her lifeless eyes are staring blankly ahead.

Plants rustle nearby; whoever is attacking is moving closer. My knife is still in my left hand but I don't think it will be much use. Throwing knives is not my strong suit, and I don't want to lose it and be unarmed. Without much thought, I reach over and grab the bow clutched loosely in Isabelle's hand. I pull an arrow out of her quiver and notch it to the string. Keeping as low as possible, I shift onto my knees and elbows. I wait for just a moment and then spring upright, positioning the bow like we'd been trained to do. The attacker, a boy, makes eye contact with me and lifts another axe. My arm draws the arrow back and I let out my breath. Just as he prepares to throw the weapon, I release the string and the arrow surges forward. It hits its target and sinks into the boy's chest. His expression goes blank and the axe falls from his hand. I watch him fall backward and disappear into the grass.

The bow slips free from my grasp and I sit back on my heels. Isabelle hasn't moved since she fell. Her cheek is warm when I touch it, but I know I will find no pulse if I push my fingers to her throat. My blood feels cold despite the sweltering heat. My hand shakes as I push back a lock of hair that has escaped from her ponytail.

"I'm— I'm sorry, Izzy," I whisper, my voice trembling.

Her backpack is still warm with her lingering body heat when I reach inside. A searing jolt goes through my heart as I rifle through the contents; collecting her belongings suddenly becomes unbearable and I snatch my hand back. Clenched in my fingers is the hunting knife she'd intended to give to me. I stare down at it, blinking past the stinging behind my eyes, and then stow it away in my own backpack. As I get to my feet, I reach over and grab the paper crane still in Isabelle's hand. Next I pick up her bow and pull what arrows she has left free of her quiver. I leave an opening in the latch of my backpack so I can pull the arrows out with ease. My eyes watch over my sister one last time before I turn away and numbly start walking in the direction of the Careers. As I go, the paper crane slips free of my hand and flutters to the ground. I leave it behind. I don't need it anymore. I have failed, and I deserve to die.


	7. In Sickness and In Health

**Hi, everyone! I wish this chapter was longer but I ran out of time writing today, and I figured it was better to upload something rather than nothing at all. I had to force myself to write, so the quality isn't the greatest. Regardless, I hope you enjoy it. Happy reading! :)**

* * *

I'm lost. Not just internally; the jungle has betrayed my memory. The trees seem to have moved as I stumble blindly through the maze of vegetation. My mind is swimming in confusion, thick in the humid air. I have no idea if the Careers are in front of me or now behind; I cannot determine which direction the stream is. I do not recall the exact moment I realized I'd run out of water. I do remember staggering through the jungle for hours after leaving Isabelle behind, numb to caution and deaf to instincts of survival. I'd tripped over vines too noisily, drained my water supply too greedily. Sleep had eluded me. Isabelle's face flooded my mind whether I was conscious or not. I am dehydrated and exhausted, but I am not afraid. As soon as I locate the pack of my most deadly enemies it will all be over.

A thick vine bumps against my cheek as I walk into its path. I stop and blink, lifting a tired arm to push it aside. It makes a soft shushing noise as it swings behind me. My hunting knife is still firmly in my grasp as my feet carry me into a small clearing. There are no signs of movement around the perimeter. I trudge through the grass and lick my dry lips. The afternoon sun glares at my back. My face feels sticky and my back is drenched where my backpack, stuffed with my jacket, arrows, and other supplies, rests between my shoulder blades. My bow shares the space. The shade from the trees is almost merciful when I finally reach the opposite side of the clearing. The undergrowth is thick here, and several times my boots snag on the treacherous plants. I fall only once, but it takes all my strength simply to convince myself to get back up again. My muscles cramp in protest as I struggle to my feet.

Something rustles in the vegetation not far away. I hesitate for a moment, looking around for signs of life. It occurs to me that I've made enough noise to attract the attention of any number of predators, but I do not have enough strength to summon even the slightest bit of worry. I force myself to move on. As I'm walking the image of an axe slamming into Isabelle's skull suddenly flashes before my eyes. I pick up my pace, trying desperately to leave the memory on the path behind me. My foot hits a puffy patch of grass and I catch the faint whisper of a noise, one that is unusual in the jungle. Before I can register what it is, something wraps around my ankle and yanks me off my feet. My body leaves the ground and I'm suddenly upside down. My backpack and bow slip free from my dangling arms and fall to the jungle floor. The knife is no longer in my hand and I realize that, in my surprise, I've dropped it. I glance toward my foot and see a rope fastened securely around it. I've been caught in a trap.

A rush of adrenaline sweeps through my body and I begin to struggle. I cannot maneuver my body correctly in order to reach the rope, and I'm too high off the ground to reach my weapons. I wriggle and thrash, trying to loosen the rope enough to drop free.

"Well, well, well."

I freeze, my eyes darting left and right for the owner of the voice.

"Look who we have here."

Someone steps into view with a casual gait. I see dark hair and broad shoulders, and I know who it is before he looks up at me. Magnus leisurely tosses a dagger into the air and catches it as it falls. A smirk breaks out across his face; the taunt makes me turn my face away.

"You're really just dangling yourself in front of me now, aren't you?"

I curl my body and reach my arms for the rope, but I only have the strength to hold the position for a few seconds.

"Just hanging around, Lightwood?"

I can't help it; I move my gaze back to Magnus. His grin widens upon catching my dumbfounded expression.

"I must say, Alexander," he says, "you make a lovely piñata."

I blink. "A what?"

"You know. Those animal-shaped boxes. You fill them with candy and let kids beat them with a stick until it breaks open and the candy falls out." He tilts his head. "You don't have those in Twelve?"

I fight to control my mortification. "No."

Magnus's eyebrows lift and he nods his head, as if my answer has actually surprised him. He looks at the ground below me and spots my backpack. As he reaches for it, his hand freezes and changes its course. When he looks back up at me, he's holding my hunting knife in his free hand. He waggles it between his thumb and index finger, and his eyes follow the curve of the blade. "I was wondering where my knife had wandered off to."

I abruptly remember the Tribute who'd knocked me to the ground at the beginning of the Trial, how he'd been attempting to strangle me until a knife had pierced the back of his neck. "That was you? You're the one who—" I bit my tongue, cutting myself short of saying the final words. _Saved me._

"I've got one hell of an aim, don't I?" Magnus toes my bow with his boot and then retrieves my backpack. He rifles through it, paying special attention to my water bottle and bag of nuts. To my surprise, he drops them back into the bag unopened. "I didn't know we had an archer in our midst."

It's not his patronizing tone that affects me, but the recollection of where— or whom —I'd gotten the bow from.

"Well, I think I've had enough conversation." Magnus drops my pack and lifts one of the knives. He swings his arm down and the blade slices through the rope with no resistance. The pressure at my ankle disappears and I fall to the ground with a yell. I land hard on my back and the air rushes out of my lungs. I stare up at the trees, dazed, until Magnus's face obstructs the serene view. It is only then that I notice his hair has been cut. It's long enough to hang over his forehead, but now I can see both of his eyes. The bangs that had once swept across one side of his face make sense now. The style was not to make him seem mysterious, but to hide the scar that reaches from the top of his eyebrow down past the corner of his eye.

"You have a choice, Alexander Lightwood." Magnus steps around me to stand at my side, then crouches down and meets my gaze. "You can die here and now, or you can formally accept my invitation to become allies."

At first I think I have misheard him, that my dehydrated state is summoning hallucinations, but before I can dwell too much on it, Magnus straightens and offers his hand. I stare at the dirt and tiny scrapes covering his skin, and after I moment I grab on and allow him to help me up.

"What do you say, Twelve? Allies or enemies?"

I shake my head. "I won't join the Careers."

To my surprise, Magnus smiles. "Lucky for you I'm no longer a part of the pack."

I gape at him. "You're lying."

"I've resigned from my position. They just don't know it yet." Magnus picks up my pack and hands it to me. "Which is why we'll want to be as far away from them as possible when they find out."

I slide my pack onto my shoulders, watching the other Tribute warily. I take my bow from him when he offers it, but when I reach out for my knife he tightens his grip around the weapon.

"I see you've got another one in your bag, so I'll be taking mine back." He takes another step toward me. "I'll ask one more time: Allies or enemies?"

I swallow hard, even though both my mouth and throat are dry. "Allies."

He nods once resolutely. "Good. We'll head back to the stream, stock up on your water supply, and then put some distance between us and the pack." Magnus unhooks a water bottle from a belt he's fashioned out of what I suspect to be the straps of his backpack. He opens the bottle and hands it to me.

It's physically painful to only take a small mouthful of water, but I hand the bottle back to Magnus quickly. It tastes fine but I can't trust that Magnus hasn't somehow poisoned it. It also feels wrong to accept help from the person I'd considered to be a great threat. He could be leading me into a trap.

Magnus reattaches his water bottle and slides one of his knives through his belt. He makes a sweeping gesture with his arm. "Shall we?"

I take a step back. "After you."

The corner of his mouth quirks up but Magnus makes no argument. He brushes past me, his stride confident and steady. Before I follow him, I reach over my shoulder and pull an arrow from my pack. I nock it against the bowstring and move forward. Magnus doesn't seem concerned about being attacked from behind; he doesn't glance over his shoulder once. Regardless, I hold my weapon at the ready as I follow behind the other Tribute.

The sun has gotten low by the time we reach the stream. I'm tempted to dive straight into it, but I settle for falling onto my knees and splashing the cool water over my face. Magnus looks around as I fumble through my bag in search of my water bottle. His back is turned as I fill the container, swallow nearly half of it, and then fill it once more. I'm fastening it shut when he faces me.

"Aren't you going to get some?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "I've got enough to last the night. Come on. We've got to head that way, find a place before it gets dark."

A part of me wants to rest and have something to eat, but Magnus has already started walking again. With a sigh, I push to my feet and follow him. He stops occasionally and glances up at the sky to get his bearings. I study him, noting how relaxed his shoulders are and how at ease he appears. This only solidifies my suspicion that he is leading me into an ambush.

The air has gotten cooler. My body is trembling, but when I brush the back of my hand against my forehead it feels warm. I expel a long breath seconds before a wave of heat rushes through me. My stomach cramps, bringing my feet to a halt. I draw in a deep breath and the pain disappears. Magnus hasn't noticed my lagging, so I quicken my pace to catch up to him. I've almost reached him when the second wave crashes over me. Simultaneously, my stomach twists and my head swims. My weapons slip from my hands as I barely catch myself on a tree before I can fall. A groan escapes me. Magnus's footsteps stop, but he doesn't risk calling my name. He hurries back to me and looks me up and down.

"What's wrong?"

Sweat has broken out on my forehead. The cramping in my stomach has subsided but nausea lingers in its stead. "I don't know."

"We have to keep going. Can you walk a little farther?"

I nod shakily and draw in a couple deep breaths. The moment I push off the tree, my stomach cramps again violently. I double over and vomit into the undergrowth. Hands grab my shoulders and keep me upright. I sway on my feet, gasping raggedly.

"Feel better?" Magnus asks, not unkindly.

I take a moment to listen to my body. My muscles are still quaking and my stomach is sore, but I no longer feel the cramping or nausea. "Yeah," I whisper.

Magnus bends down and picks up my bow and arrow, then, to my surprise, he lifts my arm and drapes it across his shoulders. His hand, fisted around the weapons, presses against my hip. I lean against him, grateful for the help and heat from his body. My head lolls as Magnus steers me through the trees. My legs are burning and all I want is to sleep. A familiar churning settles in my stomach and I feel my throat tighten. I push away from Magnus and bend over. I dry heave twice before the meager contents of my stomach come up.

"We can't stay out in the open," Magnus says urgently. "Do you think you can climb a tree?"

I press my hand against my belly. "Maybe if it's horizontal."

Magnus curses under his breath. He begins pacing, chewing on his fingernails as he peers into the growing dark. I don't understand what the conundrum is. The answer is simple: he should leave me behind. Suddenly Magnus stops. He cranes his neck forward, squinting. "Wait here."

I don't look to see where he's going. I barely manage to stay upright as I lean against a tree. Its trunk is sturdy under my hand, still warm from the day's heat. Magnus comes hurrying back all too quickly and coaxes me away from the comfort of the tree.

"It's a bloody miracle," he laughs quietly.

I don't know what he's talking about until he half-carries, half-drags me to the gentle slope of a hill. Unlike the others surrounding it, there is a single giant tree that is resting at an awkward angle. Some of its roots have been exposed, as if someone has tried to yank it down. Hidden behind the trunk and roots is a hole where the ground has shifted in the hill. I think back to when Izzy and I hid in the dugout to avoid the Careers and the thought of being scrunched up in a tight space for the night makes my stomach hurt.

Magnus lets go of me to step over the roots and behind the tree. Before he goes into the hole, he turns around and stretches his hand toward me. I accept his help and allow him to pull me into our shelter. I'm surprised to find not just a hole in the ground, but a tunnel with a gentle downward gradient. We have to crouch as we walk, but the tunnel grows larger the farther we go. My eyes adjust to the darkness of the hole and I see my bow and arrow resting on the ground. Magnus and I are almost standing straight, and there's enough room for both of us to lay down comfortably. This is either a natural miracle or the work of the Gamekeepers.

"Am I good or what?" Magnus murmurs.

I don't answer him. My stomach twists again and I fall to my knees, retching over and over. Nothing comes up; there's nothing left in me. When it finally stops, I shuck off my backpack, curl onto my side, and submit to the shaking of my throbbing muscles. I feel a hand on my back; it moves up and down my spine in a soothing motion. It feels good. I close my eyes and try to sleep, but it's freezing in the ground. I curl my arms around myself. The hand at my back moves to rest against my forehead.

"Shit. You're burning up."

Magnus grabs at the hem of my shift and tries to lift it. I pin my arms against my core, preventing him from pulling it off.

"What are you doing?" I whimper.

"We have to cool you down."

"I'm freezing." To prove my point, my teeth begin to chatter.

Magnus leans down to my ear. "Let me help you, Alec."

Hearing the gentle caress of my name on his lips relaxes me, and Magnus seizes the opportunity to gently peel my shirt away from my sticky skin. I angle my body to help him, but the second it slips free I feel the assault of the freezing air and I curl tighter into a ball. That's when I feel Magnus's body curl around mine. The warmth of his chest presses against my back and his arm blankets mine.

"Let me take care of you," he whispers.

From the moment our names had been announced at the Reaping, I'd taken it upon myself to protect my sister at all costs. My decisions and actions were based on putting myself second. Now, to hear that someone is watching out for _me_ , I feel at ease. For some inexplicable reason I feel safe. Here, in the arms of my potential enemy, I fall into a deep sleep.


	8. Cheating Death

_**Hey, y'all! Here's the next chapter. FINALLY. Enjoy!**_

* * *

The voice, though soft, is like a knife stabbing at my head. I try to ignore it, to crawl my way back into a sound sleep. When I'm awake, I can feel the pain gnawing at my stomach, the exhaustion tugging at my eyes, the grief pulling at my heart. All I want is to go to sleep and never awaken again.

"Alec," the voice whispers, persistent.

A hand pushes at my shoulder. I groan and roll onto my stomach. The presence behind me disappears, leaving a burst of cool air in its stead that hurls itself at my naked back, making me shiver.

"Alec, you have to wake up."

I groggily crack one eye open and when the blurs of color finally come into focus, I see Magnus kneeling in front of me. He's holding a water bottle and watching me expectantly. I close my eye and turn my face into the dirt. "Leave me alone."

"You need to wake up and eat something," he says, his voice more stern. "I'm not going to sit around and watch you starve."

The thought of food makes my stomach clench, but I cannot tell if it's hunger or the memory of constant vomiting that brings the onslaught of pain. I moan and curl into a ball.

"At least have something to drink," Magnus compromises.

"I just want to sleep," I mumble. "Please let me sleep."

I hear a long sigh. Something warm touches my forehead for a minute then disappears. There are shuffling noises, like Magnus is trying to find a comfortable spot to sit. His boots make shushing sounds in the dirt. I listen intently to them, begging them to lull me back to sleep.

"What was the last thing you ate?"

Magnus's loud voice is an assault on my ears. I know he's raised his voice on purpose, but I don't have the energy to be angry about it.

"Alec, what was the last thing you ate?"

Searching my memory for the answer is like trudging through mud. "I can't remember."

"You don't have any open wounds, do you? Nothing to get infected? Did you get bitten by anything?"

"Why does it matter?"

Magnus is blissfully quiet for a moment. "I need to find out what made you sick so I can help you get better."

Weakly, I flip onto my side and look at the Tribute sitting across from me. His yellow-green eyes, slightly narrowed, hold my gaze. "I don't see why you'd bother."

His posture goes rigid, as if I've offended him. "We're allies."

"You're supposed to let me die so you can win." My words lack any trace of emotion, not because my fever has left me too weak to muster any, but because this is simply a fact.

"I refuse to let you die like this."

"There's no reason to waste your energy in keeping me alive."

Magnus chews on the inside of his cheek. He suddenly lurches to his hands and knees and crawls until he is kneeling in front of me. "You're somebody's child, Alexander. There are people that love you."

I curl my arm under my head. "Nobody loves me."

His eyebrows draw together. "You're stupid if you think that. Give yourself some credit." He turns his face away. "Idiot."

I smirk a little and allow my eyes to wander to landscape of his profile. They travel the strong line of his jaw, the slant of his cheekbone, and the soft curve of his nose. My gaze draws his back to mine and we look at each other in silence. Without reserve, I reach my hand up to his face and trace the jagged red path of his scar. He blinks and draws in a breath. I wonder if I've hurt him, but my hand lingers in place.

"Who did this to you?" I whisper.

Magnus pulls away and scoots back, putting distance between us. He scratches the back of his neck and avoids my gaze. "You really don't remember your last meal?"

"The last thing I recall is when we stopped at the stream to refill our bottles. We started walking again and then I got dizzy and nauseous. Next thing I know I'm puking my guts up."

"It almost sounds like a water contaminant got into your system, but that's not possible if you purified your water," Magnus muses.

I nod, half asleep. "Okay."

"Alec, you _did_ purify your water, right?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

Magnus's jaw drops open and he springs for my backpack. He rummages through the contents for a few seconds before yanking something out. He lifts it up to show me. I recognize the small bottle that holds silver tablets. "Did you put these in your water?"

"I don't even know what those are," I yawn. "Of course I didn't put any in my water."

Magnus lets out a laugh and rolls his eyes. "These are iodine tablets, you idiot. You use them to purify potentially dangerous water, which is exactly what flows through this arena. You're probably the only Tribute who gets to use tablets instead of boiling your water, and you aren't even smart enough to use them."

"I didn't know what they were," I say again, not angrily. "Just like piñatas, we don't have iodine tablets in Twelve."

Magnus nods and grins. "Guess what, Alec? You're going to be just fine."

I don't bother to reply. I let my eyes close and allow myself to drift out of consciousness. This time, Magnus lets me sleep.

* * *

It's dark when I awaken. The more my eyes adjust to the dimness, the more disoriented I become. I look around, trying to comprehend my situation. I'm underground, I'm alone, and, for some reason, I'm half naked. I locate my backpack and search through it. My shirt is neatly folded inside, and my knife, water bottle, and tree nuts are still there. I hastily slide my shirt on and grab my knife. Along with the gray towel, my bow and arrows have gone missing. I loathe the thought of leaving them behind, but I have to escape while I still can. I snatch my backpack and hoist it onto my shoulders; the movement takes more effort than it should. I'm putting my arm through the second strap when a noise catches my attention. I listen carefully and catch footfalls approaching. I only have time to raise the knife before the figure appears.

Magnus Bane stops mid-step and gapes at me, his eyes wide and his expression taken aback. My quiver is slung across his back, and he's holding my bow in one hand. In the other is a small limp animal. "Going somewhere?"

"What's going on?" I demand.

"I was out catching dinner." Magnus eyes me from head to toe, taking note of the knife in my hand. "Nice to see you vertical, Twelve. Your fever must have broken. The amnesia will go away on its own."

"Why am I here?"

"I found this shelter when you got sick. You've been here ever since."

I lower the knife but grip it tightly. "Why should I trust you?"

Magnus cocks an eyebrow. "One, we're allies. Two, why would I bother to stand here and make up lies when I could easily kill you right now?" He gives a satisfied nod at my expression and sets my bow on the ground. He shrugs out of the quiver and puts it aside.

"How long have I been out?" I ask.

"Two days. No deaths since then. The count is still ten, eight excluding us."

Eight Tributes remaining, and the Career Pack accounts for almost half of that total. Only nine more people have to die in order for me to be crowned victor. On the other hand— the much more realistic hand —there are still at least nine chances of me getting killed before the end of the Trial.

"You're not strong enough to travel, let alone defend yourself," Magnus says. "I'm going to cook us some food while there's still a bit of light left. We'll come up with a plan tomorrow, all right?"

Magnus takes the carcass and turns away. As he leaves, I catch a glimpse of the knife tucked into his belt. I shuck off my backpack and follow him outside. At the entrance of the tunnel I discover Magnus has used my towel as a makeshift door, and it is not a towel so much as it is a blanket. Just like Isabelle had guessed.

The memory of my sister punches me so hard in the chest I have to stifle a gasp. I push past the blanket and step out into the fresh air. The last remnants of the day's heat surround me. Magnus insists I go back inside and rest, but my cramped muscles are desperate to be stretched. I watch him as he skins our dinner and makes a fire just big enough to cook the meat. When it's nicely browned, he extinguishes the flames, stomps on the embers, and scatters the evidence. As we head back inside, I realize why Magnus has hung the blanket up. The color has almost changed from gray to the dark shades of the earth. It is camouflaged so well, I almost have to look twice to spot it.

We eat quietly inside the shelter. I scarf down my share of the meal and drink almost my entire water bottle once Magnus assures me he's purified it on my behalf. The food makes my stomach cramp, but I manage to keep it down. Already I feel stronger.

Magnus has only swallowed the last morsel of his food when he begins to outline his plan for tomorrow. "I think our next move should be an attack on the Careers."

"Already? Don't you think we should wait them out?" I immediately regret my words once I hear the cowardice in my voice.

He shakes his head. "I don't think there's any point in prolonging the inevitable. We should track them and eliminate them."

His confidence is impressive but not contagious. "I'm just saying that it's possible we'll only have to face one or two of them if we bide our time."

"As much as I hate to admit it, the Careers are smart, Alec. They're impulsive, but they're smart. We either face them now or face them five Tributes from now. I guarantee they'll attack us if the opportunity strikes; all we need is a strategy."

"It's two against three," I point out.

"Yeah but two of those three are girls."

"That doesn't mean anything."

"We can beat them, Alec. You just have to trust me." Magnus swallows a drink of water. "We'll work on our strategy, but I think we should devote tomorrow to stocking up on supplies. We'll head back to the stream and then we'll start tracking."

"What if they're waiting there to ambush us?"

Magnus thinks. "It's possible but unlikely. The Careers aren't partial to waiting around for their prey. They're hunters, stalkers."

"Great," I say unenthusiastically.

"Do you have a problem with the plan?"

"It's not the plan I have a problem with. It's your attitude about the plan."

Magnus bristles. "My _attitude_?"

"Yeah. Your attitude."

"Excuse me for having a little faith—"

My anger flares. "You're being cocky and it's making you stupid. I would know because the last time I was in a group of two, I felt like we were safe, like we were invincible. And that ended with my little sister taking an axe to the front of her skull."

Magnus's jaw snaps shut and his eyes widen. I only briefly see his look of guilt before I turn away. I've been forbidding myself from surrendering to the pain of Izzy's death, but now it comes crashing down on me like a wave and I am swept away in the torrent. My chest tightens and the space in the shelter shrinks. There isn't enough air. My eyes are burning. I push my hand through my hair, willing myself not to drown in emotion.

"Alec—"

I imagine Magnus reaching for me and immediately shrug into myself. "Don't, Magnus. Just don't." Suddenly I am sobbing. Ragged breaths rip from my chest and my cheeks are drenched. I think of my father and how he would have chastised me for showing such weakness, but I still can't stop.

A hand tentatively touches my shoulder and I stiffen. After a moment, an arm curls around me. I turn my face away, embarrassed, but Magnus tugs me tighter against his side. I submit to the sorrow and I cry. I cry for the death of my sister. I cry for my own pain. I cry until Magnus is the only strength holding me off the ground.

* * *

Magnus wakes me at daybreak. I'm drowsy but I don't offer any complaints. Magnus makes no mention of the night prior, and for that I am grateful. I know my eyes are still swollen and red, but he pretends not to notice. We pack our belongings in silence. We each take a couple nuts from my supply, as well as meager sips of water. When we leave the shelter, Magnus insists on leaving the blanket up. His reasons are twofold: the blanket is good camouflage and he doesn't want anyone else to stumble across the dugout, and it would be a waste of time to take it down when we'll just be putting it back up tonight when we return. I do not argue with him.

Magnus takes the lead through the jungle. His footing and direction are so certain I'm convinced he's secretly carrying a map of the arena. We do not make conversation as we hike; our ears our trained on the sounds surrounding us. We've both sweated through our shirts not long into our journey. When we stop for a breather I drain the rest of my water bottle.

When the stream is finally in view, Magnus comes to a stop. He glances at me from over his shoulder and makes a waving motion with his hand. I follow closely behind, copying his movements as he crouches low and makes for an area with more cover. We duck behind a wide tree trunk and scan the area.

"I was thinking about what you said last night," Magnus whispers. "About an ambush. You're right. This would be the perfect place for one. Everyone has to come here at some point."

I let the swell of panic at the mention of last night subside. "We'll have to be quick."

"And careful. Watch for any traps. Save purification for later. And Alec?" He smirks at me. "Don't drink any until you've done so."

I grin and nudge him with my elbow. He surveys the area cautiously one last time before fluidly rising to his feet. Signaling for me to stay put, he creeps out into the open. I watch him, an arrow notched against my bowstring, as he glances up into the treetops and into thick patches of undergrowth. He's taken about a dozen steps before he moves his wrist in a circular motion, indicating for me to follow. I move with steady grace as I follow Magnus closer to the stream. When we reach it uninterrupted, Magnus orders me to replenish first. He takes my bow while I'm filling up and immediately hands it back when I've tucked the bottle safely into my pack. He screws the lid on his full bottle and straightens.

"Let's get the hell out of here."

We leave in the opposite direction that we arrived. I fall into step behind my ally, finally feeling the confidence Magnus exhumed when we'd left the shelter. Just as we inch closer to another broad tree, there is a flash of silver and Magnus stops in his tracks. I backtrack, lifting my bow and arrow and taking aim. A slender figure with fiery hair steps out from behind the tree, an outstretched sword in her hand effectively barricading our path.

"There you are, Magnus," Clary says. "We thought you'd gone and gotten yourself killed."

"Don't look so put out about it," Magnus murmurs.

"Can't say I was particularly concerned, but Camille has been out of sorts. Jace has been moody, but I'm sure he'll forgive you when he sees the present you've brought us." Her green eyes flick to me.

Something heavy strikes the ground behind me. I whirl around, bow still raised. The blonde girl from District Two, Camille, is scowling at me. Her hair is tied back in a single braid and her pink lip is curled. When she is finished glaring at me, she casts a hurt look in Magnus's direction.

"How could you leave me like that?" she pouts. "I was worried sick."

Magnus steps up behind me. "I had better interests to pursue."

The hurt that flashes in Camille's eyes is quickly replaced by hatred, hatred that she aims at me. Before it can affect me too much, another figure drops to ground beside the girl. I am not surprised when Jace straightens to his full height. I shift my arrow in his direction.

"Pursued," Jace says, "and herded in our direction. Job well done, Magnus, even if you did only bring back one Lightwood."

Doubt flickers in my chest. I can't bear the thought of the man standing behind me betraying me and leading me into a trap.

"I didn't bring him back for you," Magnus growls.

Jace rolls his eyes, amused. "Fine. You can draw first blood."

Magnus suddenly pushes me behind him. Camille and Jace share a look, equally confused and shocked. "You'll have to go through me before you hurt him."

"You'd shield a District Twelve rat with your own body?" Jace spits.

"I've felt closer to a Tribute from Twelve than I ever have living next to the vermin in One and Two."

Jace snaps his fingers. There's a gleam of light as Clary's sword sails overhead and lands in Jace's hand. He points the blade at Magnus's chest. "Traitor! You deserve a slow and painful death."

"If I can cheat my own District, I think I can cheat death for a little while longer."

Magnus's body turns and his leg arcs through the air, his foot connecting with Jace's wrist. Jace lets out a shout as his weapon is launched from his hand. The blade sings as it sails through the air. I keep my aim trained on Jace, waiting for the split moment Magnus's body moves to give me a clear shot. Before I can fire it, two hands grasp my bow and wrench it to the side. I tighten my grip, fighting to take my weapon back from Camille. Pain suddenly shoots up my leg and I fall to one knee, losing my hold on my weapon completely. Hands latch on to my hair and viciously yank my head back, pulling until I'm flat on the ground. My arms are wrenched over my head and pinned to the ground. Camille straddles my hips as Clary restrains me. A dagger is in the blonde's hand; she waggles it tauntingly.

"Where's pretty little Isabelle, Alexander?" She clucks her tongue. "She's dead, isn't she? Too bad. We could have had a lot of fun together. Looks like you'll be having enough fun for the two of you." She sets the blade flat against my cheek, the tip pointed at my eye. "Such pretty eyes. Shall we cut them out?"

I struggle against Clary's hold. When I turn my head, I see Jace and Magnus fighting each other with their bare hands. My ally cannot help me; I'm on my own.

Camille trails the dagger down the side of my face to my neck. She places the edge against my skin and makes a small slice. I suck in a breath at the pinching sensation. With a smile, she continues to drag the blade down my chest, across my stomach, and against my hip. She pushes my shirt up slightly, exposing my abdomen, and makes another cut just above my hip bone. I try to squirm away from her.

"What a beautiful canvas," she whispers. "Such nice skin to paint red." She makes a matching cut on the opposite side of my body. She grinds her hips against me and lowers her face closer to mine. "You like that, Alec?"

I throw my head forward and my skull connects with Camille's face. There's an audible crunch right before the blonde screams in pain. She throws herself off me, clutching at her face. The dagger falls to the ground, and in the commotion Clary's grip on me loosens a fraction. It's all I need. I yank my arms free and lunge for the dagger. I've barely grabbed it when I can feel someone clawing at my back. Fingernails reach around to rake the sides of my face. Clary's body pushes up behind mine as she tries to dig her nails into my eyes. I strike out with the dagger, aiming just above my shoulder. It hits something hard and the fingers at my face go still. Wasting no time, I scramble forward and snatch up my bow and arrow. As I turn, already aiming, I watch Clary's body slump to the jungle floor, the dagger protruding from her throat.

"Clary!"

My target switches to Camille, who is shakily getting to her feet. Her hand is cupped under her chin, and blood stains the lower half of her face. Her nose is crooked.

"You son of a bitch!" she snarls at me.

I don't hesitate. I let go of my bowstring and the arrow whistles through the air. It sinks directly in between Camille's eyes, a clean hit. She instantly drops to her knees and topples to the side.

"Clary!"

The voice is almost directly behind me. I whip around just in time for a solid mass of muscle to slam into me. I hit the ground and the oxygen tears from my lungs. Jace's punch lands on my cheekbone, and I retaliate with a landed punch of my own. It knocks him off balance and I manage to wriggle out from under him. I'm crawling for my bow when I spot him, lying in the grass. Magnus's body is face down and still.

Jace grabs at the back of my shirt and jerks me onto the ground. He sits on my abdomen and raises a blade, one I recognize instantly. I barely catch his wrist before Magnus's knife sinks into my heart. Jace clutches the weapon with both hands and pushes down, sweat beading on his forehead. I shove upward with everything that I have. For a moment, the knife starts to lift away, then Jace leans his upper body downward and I feel the tip of the blade brush against my shirt. I grunt and hiss with exertion, and when the knife starts to pierce my skin, I let out an agonized yell.

Just as I'm about to let go and let Jace kill me, two hands wrap around his head. It is wrenched to one side and a crunching noise bounces between my ear drums. Jace's body goes limp and the knife falls from his hand. Magnus pulls the Tribute's body off me and gently lays him on the ground. I sit up, breathing hard and clutching at my chest. Magnus stares at Jace's body for a minute before returning to me. Crouching in front of me, he gently presses his fingertips against my forehead, just above my eyebrow. Pain, like a flash, erupts inside my head. It is only brief, though the beginning of a headache rises like smoke. When he pulls his fingers away, they are slightly bloody. I must have split the skin when I head-butted Camille.

"Are you okay?" Magnus asks.

I pull out the collar of my shirt and peek down at my chest. The wound there is bleeding, but it's small and shallow. I let out a relieved sigh and lean back on my hands. "I'm fine." I am taken by surprise when Magnus wraps his arms around me and pulls me against him. My return embrace is hesitant. "What happened to you? I thought you were dead."

Magnus pulls back. "He got me good in the head. I don't remember hitting the ground, but when I came to I just kept my eyes closed, played dead. Then I heard you."

I mull this over. "Thank you."

He nods and offers a weak smile. "Shall we head home?"

"Home sounds good."

We gather our things and leave behind the weapons that do not belong to us. Taking the possessions of the Careers seems like an omen too heavy to risk. I drop some iodine tablets into our water bottles before we leave so they're ready to drink when we stop for a break. We walk side by side this time, leaning on each other for strength. Neither of us speaks; I keep envisioning Magnus's head snapping up the second he heard my cry of pain, launching him to my rescue.

Magnus finds some edible plants when we stop at the halfway point. The greenish-brown stalks taste like bitter celery, but the flavour is light and settles in my stomach, and it's a nice change from nuts.

It's dusk by the time we reach the shelter again. Magnus is adamant on checking to make sure no one is inside, so he goes in alone with his knife in hand. I wait until he gives a low whistle. Once inside, I take off my quiver and backpack and toss them aside. I fall to the ground and stretch out on my back. My muscles are tender and there's a dull throb in my head. The cuts on my chest, hips, and head are only aches. Even though I'm exhausted and in pain, I suddenly find myself laughing. Magnus looks over at me quizzically. He must think I've gone crazy, crying one night and laughing the next.

"I can't believe we did it," I say between laughs. "I didn't think there was a chance in hell."

Magnus chuckles. "They had the element of surprise and had us outnumbered by one."

I wince as I roll onto my side and prop myself up on one elbow. "You were right. They were pretty impulsive."

"So impulsive it was _re_ pulsive."

"I broke Camille's nose. She totally looked like a pig afterwards." Magnus's smile fades and I realize I've gone too far. I shake my head and look down, ashamed. "Sorry. That was disrespectful."

Magnus leans closer to me. "Don't lose sight of who you are, Alec." As I'm searching his face, he leans closer still. My heart is battering against my ribcage and I'm suddenly holding my breath when he cranes his neck. I can feel his breath on my cheeks, followed by the lightest brush of his lips. The slight pressure is there and gone so quickly I almost let out a groan of disappointment.

Magnus is smiling when he draws back. "Just how I imagined it."

My body reacts on its own accord. I reach out my hand and cup the back of Magnus's neck, curling my fingers into his hair, and I yank him toward me. Our lips crush together, greedy and hungry and insistent. This is my first kiss— my first _real_ kiss —and I'm self-conscious about how sloppy it might seem, but Magnus knows what he's doing. He's cupping my cheek and nibbling at my lower lip. His tongue gently slides past my teeth. I'm so lost in his kiss I forget about my own inexperience.

We both retreat at the same time to catch our breath. Magnus is staring at me with wide eyes, and I can feel a blush creeping into my cheeks. Slowly, his lips curve into a smile.

"Not how I imagined it," he whispers, and he leans in again.


	9. The Choice

**Hi, all! It's been a while since I updated again. I've got something special for you for your patience! :) Hope you all enjoy it! Cheers! Much love.**

* * *

It is neither fear no hunger that keeps me awake, staring at the wall of dirt before me. The unease of enemies lurking near our shelter has not taken root inside my mind, and my stomach is contentedly full. It is the constant fluttering of my heart that confines me to wakefulness. Every time I close my eyes I imagine it is Magnus in front of me, his hand warm against my cheek and his breath soft against my lips. I remember the shock that thrummed through every vein the moment his mouth met mine, and the intense electricity when his teeth nipped at my lip. My mouth goes dry just thinking about it and I feel every nerve in my body standing alert.

I wonder if the kiss had been a dream, or if it was just a creation concocted by my fever-ridden mind. Perhaps I am still sick and I have only awoken from sleep just now, and perhaps our victory against the Careers was only an illusion.

Troubled, I roll onto my other side and peer through the shadows. I am surprised to see Magnus already watching me. Neither of us speak, though when I blink Magnus blinks back, almost assuring me my eyes are not playing tricks on me.

After a minute, Magnus shifts onto his elbow and whispers, "Are you awake?"

Even hearing his voice makes my pulse jump. "Yeah."

"I can't sleep."

I've heard him perfectly clear, but I am listening to the sweet song, imagined or not, that is weaved into his words: _I can't stop thinking about you._ I answer to both with a soft, "Neither can I."

I can feel his gaze on me and it is warm in the chill of the night. A shiver stretches from my head to my toes and, as if he has seen it, Magnus gets up and crawls over to me. He leaves less than an arm's length of distance between us. My head is still nestled against my rolled-up jacket, and Magnus lowers himself onto his side so we are eye-level. He uses his arm to cradle his head as his eyes roam my face. I swallow past a lump in my throat when he bites his lip.

"We should get some sleep," he says, his voice rough.

I can only manage a slight nod before I close my eyes, but they only remain closed for about three seconds. When they flash open again, Magnus is still watching me. We both reach for each other at the same time; Magnus grasps my hip and pulls me against him just as I cup his face. His lips are warm and slightly damp when I taste them and I part mine eagerly when he prods at them with his tongue. His hand clenches at my waist as his tongue slides into my mouth. My fingers slide into his hair and twist into the strands, tugging gently. He groans against my lips and I feel heat bloom in my lower belly. As I pull back to catch my breath, Magnus nuzzles my neck and bites gently at my skin. I gasp and lean my head back, giving him better access. As he licks and sucks, his hand slowly creeps under my shirt. I feel his fingers at my abdomen first, before they slide up to my chest. He massages my pectoral first before moving his fingers in slow, torturous circles around my nipple.

The sound that escapes me is a cry halfway between pain and pleasure. Immediately I bite down on my lip, embarrassed by my moment of shameless abandon. Magnus lifts his head from my neck and kisses me again as his hands continue to work magic on my body. He breathes in my moans like air and begins to explore; his hand curves around my hip and slides down to my ass. He gives it a delicious squeeze and pulls me against him. Our hips grind together with exquisite pressure. His hand moves lower still, dropping down to the back of my thigh where he lifts my leg to drape over his own hip. I untangle my fingers from his hair and follow the curve of his shoulders down to his back. There I dig my fingers into his muscles, begging to bring every inch of him against me.

Magnus lets out a hiss and dives for my mouth again. As he's kissing me, his hand cups the front of my pants. My entire body freezes and I am suddenly aware that the Capitol's eyes are watching us, have been watching our every move. And not just the Capitol. . . I bury my face in Magnus's neck as I imagine the look on my father's face as he watches his son touch another man so greedily.

"Alec?" Magnus tries to get me to lift my head.

"I can't," I whisper. "Not when they're watching."

Magnus goes still and I worry that I've offended him or made him angry, but he runs his hand up and down my back a couple times before peeling himself away from me. I watch, both embarrassed and disappointed, as he gets up and disappears into the tunnel. I suspect he's gone to cool off. Just as I settle myself to try and get some sleep I hear his approaching footsteps, and in his arms is the blanket used as our makeshift door. Without a word, he flicks the blanket into the air above me and the material settles over my body, covering me completely. The edge of the blanket shifts and I feel Magnus slide his body up behind me. He snakes his arms around my middle and pull me tight against him as he presses his lips to my neck.

"It's just us now," he whispers.

Even though is seems absurd to think that a blanket can hide us from the world, I find myself relaxing completely in Magnus's embrace. I have to twist and crane my neck, but we manage to seek each other's lips. His hands find their way back under my shirt as we kiss. Heat floods my cheeks when he cups the front of my pants again and I have to break my mouth from his. As he begins to rub the sensitive spot, he pays special attention to my neck and ear with his tongue. A jolt hits my groin when he bites my earlobe.

"Did that feel good?" he murmurs.

"Yes," I rasp, breathless.

He bites the same spot again and I can't hold back my cry of pleasure. My hips, moving at their own accord, being to thrust against his hand. Magnus moans against my ear and deftly slips his fingers into my pants. His tongue traces the curve of my ear as he strokes the length of me.

I'd kissed girls before, but I'd never dared kiss another of my gender when word could have easily reached my father's ears. I'd asked girls on dates and stolen first kisses, even touched a curve or two. Not once had I enjoyed any of these things. I'd never done anything like this before. Part of me felt that this was wrong, thanks to my father's opinions and disciplines engrained in my mind and body. But this pleasure was intense and overwhelming and. . . perfect.

Magnus begins stroking me rhythmically and my hips begin to move in sync with him. He nudges his knee between my legs and grinds at the apex of my thighs. I'm moaning now, murmuring Magnus's name every time there's a flash of heat low in my body. While one hand is pumping me, Magnus moves his other hand to my chest and rubs my nipple. The sudden flash of pleasure makes me cry out loud enough to freeze Magnus's movements.

"Don't stop," I pant. "Please."

His hands and knee begin to move again. Sparks ignite and gather in my groin, building and building. He shifts behind me and thrusts his hips against my ass. That's when I feel it, when I feel _him_. He thrusts a couple more times, moaning my name, and my breath rushes out in shallow pants. The gyrating of my hips quickens. My heart is racing; _I'm_ racing for the ultimate moment of bliss I've only heard about.

Magnus rams himself against me at the same moment he strokes me from tip to root and my body explodes. A flash of light spears my eyes and I'm screaming his name. Tremors of pleasure surge through me. When the waves begin to subside I begin to swim lazily through the ebbing current. Magnus holds my limp body tightly as I catch my breath. The air under the blanket is hot and stifling, and I've only realized how badly I'm sweating just now. Magnus shows no hint of disgust or expectation; he plants soft kisses up and down the curve of my neck. I lean against him and close my eyes, suddenly exhausted.

His breath tickles my ear as he laughs quietly, "I think they might have heard you."

"I don't care," I mutter. "That was one hell of an orgasm."

He frees his leg and wraps his arms around my waist, curling his body around mine. "Glad to be of service."

I can already feel myself drifting away. "What about you?"

"Go to sleep."

I can't even muster the energy to answer. I slip out of one dream and into another. It's the best sleep I've had in a long, long time.

* * *

Magnus is still asleep when the morning draws me out of my slumber. Careful not to jostle or wake him, I slip out from under the blanket, grab my knife, and make my way through the tunnel. It's early and the air outside is still damp and brisk. I reach my arms overhead and stretch, rolling my head from side to side. The memory of last night brings a smile to my lips, until I remember a particular bodily response I'd taken part in. I glance down at the front of my clothes and nearly sigh in relief; by some miracle there are no stains betraying our passion.

Refreshed, I head back inside. Magnus is sitting up and rubbing his eyes when I enter the shelter. He gives a lazy, almost timid smile when he sees me, and his mouth opens and closes as if he is struggling to choose the right thing to say. I drop my knife and kneel down in front of him, firmly pushing my mouth against his. He stiffens in surprise but presses his lips back, deepening the kiss. When I pull back, I'm grinning like a fool.

"Good morning," I say.

He pushes my hair back and trails a finger down my cheek. "I expected you to be shy and blushing this morning."

"Didn't I already exceed your expectations once?"

"That you did." His gaze flicks pointedly to my lips. "Want to exceed them again?"

I draw in a shaky breath of anticipation. "How about after breakfast?"

Magnus nods and excuses himself to hang the blanket back up at the entrance to the shelter. When he returns I give him enough tree nuts to fill the middle of his palm; my supply is running low so I only take a pinch for myself. I chew them slowly, one at a time. I take a generous swallow of water from my bottle to fill the space in my stomach.

"There are still five Tributes left," Magnus says suddenly.

I cock my head to the side and contemplate his words. "I haven't forgotten."

His eyes captivate mine. "I really enjoyed last night, Alec."

"I did, too."

"You know, we could enjoy a lot more nights together if there weren't five other Tributes threatening to tear us apart."

I shake my head. "Magnus. . ."

My ally scoots closer to me and takes my hand in his, squeezing my fingers. "I don't like going to sleep not knowing if we're safe. I want to be with you without the constant nagging of my instincts telling me to be on my guard."

I look at our joined hands before meeting his gaze. "I can't hunt any more people, Magnus. Defending ourselves is one thing. . ."

"Then that's what we'll do. We'll travel a little bit each day. We won't hunt anyone down, but if someone strays into our territory we'll defend ourselves."

In my head I'm hearing Magnus justify and condone murdering other people, but in my heart I'm feeling him protecting me, protecting us.

"Even if we did eliminate the other Tributes, we won't have infinite time with each other."

He searches my face. "We would have as long as we want."

"The Game Makers would never allow it. They'll kill us themselves if we haven't already tried to kill each other." The words sink in as I say them. Our pact only promises our best effort to keep each other alive until we're the only two left; there isn't necessarily an alliance past that point. This lust is something that will inevitably pass. I have to face the fact that very soon Magnus's gentle caress could turn into chokehold.

"We have to try." He inches closer to me. "Just try." He kisses me, so softly it brings an ache to my heart.

"I don't know if I can," I whisper against his lips. I think of the side of myself that had broken free in the photo displayed at the Ascension. "I don't want to lose myself."

"I can do it. I'm no angel. All I'm asking is that you come with me."

My forehead rests against his. "What do we do?"

"We'll leave now and head in one direction, and we'll start our way back just before nightfall."

"Sounds easy enough."

He smirks and nips at my bottom lip. "I can't wait to show you my appreciation when we get back."

I grin back and he hauls me to my feet. We pack what little we have and set out before it starts to get too hot. Magnus takes the lead once again, pointing us in the direction opposite the stream. I've got my bow in my hand and the handle of my knife is easily accessible at my hip.

The arena seems bigger now that we're only sharing it with five other Tributes; I'm still alert but I find myself not as tense as I'd been days ago. Magnus checks on me every so often, and when he does I throw a cautious glance over my shoulder to assure we're not being followed. The jungle seems quiet and peaceful around us. Still, as at ease as I am, apprehension chews at my gut. I cannot tell if this is an internal chastisement for my growing recklessness or if it's an instinctual warning, like I am flying straight toward a camouflaged web.

We stop at midday in an area largely surrounded by waist-high grass and shrubs. We set up camp at the base of a tree, using the wide girth of the trunk to protect our backs. Magnus finds edible plants for us to eat and we both replenish ourselves with water. The two of us wait in silence, listening hard for the announcement of another presence. The day passes slowly and even in the shade the heat is ruthless. The humidity has made me exhausted but it is almost excruciating to have to sit completely still and count each passing minute.

Magnus's face is dripping with perspiration. My shirt is stuck to my body, and when I pull it away to let some air between my skin and the material it sticks to the cuts Camille gifted me. I wince at the stinging of the raw skin, yet the pain brings a blessed bout of wakefulness. Beside me, Magnus is struggling to keep his eyes open. I wonder if his sleep had been as sound as mine was last night.

"Alec," he murmurs, "what do you think about shifts?"

"Shifts?"

"I just need to rest my eyes for a while. Wake me up when you need to rest and we'll switch."

I'd feel better with another pair of eyes keeping watch, but I can't object to the suggestion with Magnus looking as fatigued as he is. I nod in agreement and he moves close enough to rest his head on my shoulder. He's only closed his eyes for a couple seconds before his breathing lengthens and he relaxes against me. My eyes peer into the grass, searching for the tiniest flicker of movement in a single blade. Magnus's body heat begins to seep into my skin and the shades of green suddenly blur. I shake my head and pinch my leg to keep myself awake. The sun is so bright that it makes me squint, and slowly my eyelids begin to droop lower and lower.

 _Just a minute_ , I tell myself. _You only need to rest for a minute._

 _Just for a minute._

 _Just for a minute._

 _Just for a minute. . ._

* * *

I wake with a start and panic flares in my chest realize how much time has passed. The sun has already started to set and the air has gotten cooler. I'd accidentally slept away hours, hours where anyone could have sneaked up on us and slit our throats. Cursing at myself, I look around for my bow, which had fallen from my hand while I'd dozed.

Just as I reach for my weapon, a patch of grass rustles up ahead. I freeze, my eyes fixed on the vegetation. Silence settles in front of me for a minute before the grass swishes again, and this time my eyes catch the swaying of the blades. Two more areas in the grass snatch my attention. Whatever threat approaches, it's three against two.

I grab Magnus's shoulder and violently shake him. He startles awake, his eyes wide and his back straight. I hold my finger to my lips and point at the grass. We slowly rise to our feet at the same time. I briefly recall the noises I'd heard in the vegetation during my trekking after I'd lost Isabelle. I hadn't stuck around long enough to see what I was up against. If it was a Tribute, clearly he or she has made an alliance.

The thought suddenly leaves my head when a shape pops vertically out of the grass. Two more burst into view in quick succession on either side of the first. I stiffen as I recognize the distinct features of three snakes, all of them far larger than I've ever seen before. Two of them are green with brown diamond-shaped patches, the other is solid black aside from three vibrant red stripes stretching from its snout to the back of its head. The three of them hiss at once, bearing three different pairs of deadly fangs.

"We have to run," I whisper urgently to Magnus. When he gives no reply, I start to count. "One. . . Two. . . Three!"

I turn and bolt to the left. Loud hisses shout after me before I can hear the slithering of bodies following in close pursuit. The grass begins to shorten to the height of my knees the farther I run, but it's still impossible to see the ground. I can only pray my foot doesn't catch on a root or vine.

A clearing off to the right grabs my gaze and I veer through the grass to reach it. My paces quickens when my legs become free of the grass and I risk a glance over my shoulder. Magnus is no longer behind me but two of the snakes still are. They hiss as they slither closer with unbelievable speed. I spit out a curse and desperately try to think up a plan as I run. I eliminate trees as escape routes, which leaves me two options: fight them or try to outrun them. I decide on the latter. There's the slightest chance that the Game Makers have confined the demons to certain areas of the arena. If I can find a border and cross it, I'll be safe.

All of a sudden, a hard body slams into me and knocks me to the ground. I roll over just as a Tribute twice my size straddles me and lifts a knife. I yank my own knife out to defend myself when there's a flash of green and the Tribute's weight disappears. I sit bolt upright and watch in horror as one of the snakes coils its thick body around the Tribute. He screams in terror, reaching one free arm toward me in desperation. The snake tightens its grip until the Tribute's face goes dark red, cutting off his shrieks.

I whip my head around. The other snake has stopped in its tracks, watching the other suffocate a meal. It turns its attention back to me and hisses, surging forward. I scramble to my feet and tear across the clearing. As I'm sprinting I think of all the people watching my situation unfold on television screens. Are their hearts beating as fast as mine? Are there people crying, people shouting at me to run faster? Even worse, are there people cheering for the snake? My father's face flashes before my eyes. My boot catches on something and I lose my footing, crashing hard to the ground. Before I can recover, the snake descends on me and coils the length of its body around me. One of my arms is pinned to my side but the other is free. I gasp as the snake begins to constrict, crushing me. Panicked, I suck in a breath and another inch of breathing space is squeezed away. My muscles are in anguish but I don't dare scream. The more I squirm, the tighter the snake winds itself. I draw in and expel the tiniest breaths, which is making my head swim. It's when I throw my head back that I see my knife on the ground. I'd dropped it when I'd thrown my arms out to catch myself. I reach for it and my body stretches, giving the snake another opportunity to tighten its grip. I can't help the noise of pain I make when it does. I don't have much time before I won't be able to breathe. I reach for the knife again but it rests beyond my fingertips. There's only one way I'm going to be able to get a hold of it.

I push all the air from my lungs and stretch my arm for the knife. The snake constricts its body even more and the pain is excruciating, but I am able to reach far enough to touch the weapon. The edges of my vision blur as I inch it into my hand. A choking noise rips from my throat just as I plunge the blade into the snakes body. I stab it several times before its body loosens enough for the snake to free its head. The second we make eye contact, I drive the knife into the underside of its jaw and the tip juts out of the top of its skull. The snake goes slack and I gasp in a ragged breath. Yanking the knife free, I scramble to untangle myself from the predator.

My knees tremble as I get to my feet and effectively vomit the contents of my stomach. As I'm wiping my mouth, I consider cutting off a chunk of the snake and keeping it for a meal later, but I put the option aside until I know for sure Magnus is safe.

I start running in the direction I'd come from, carefully giving a wide berth to the area where the other Tribute had been ensnared. My pace quickens across the clearing and I bite back the impulse to shout my ally's name as I reach the grassy area once again. I slow down as I near the tree we'd rested under. There's a noise I've never heard before, like muffled crying. It sends a chill down my spine.

Crouching in the grass, I inch toward the tree. Very slowly, I rise enough to see over the tips of the blades. I still can't see anything so I follow the sound until I can distinguish what is making the whimpering noise. I stand to my full height and the sight before me brings my hand to my mouth.

There's a small patch of short grass near another tree. The black snake is stretched out on the ground, nearly eight feet in length. Magnus is on the ground too, and the snake's mouth is encircling his midsection. The top half of the snake's body is engorged with Magnus's legs. Bile rises in my throat. Magnus's eyes are open and he's still making whimpering noises, but his body is unmoving, paralysed. The snake either hasn't noticed me or is too busy feeding to care. I look at the knife in my hand; I can't stab the snake in the head without harming Magnus and I doubt stabbing the tail end will kill it.

Almost mechanically I turn round and head back to the first tree. There I locate my bow and pick it up. I'm nocking an arrow to the string as I approach the predator and its prey. I squat down a couple feet away and take aim. The snake continues swallowing Magnus alive even as its yellow eye looks directly at me. Hatred cold in my veins, I let the arrow fly and watch it numbly as it sinks into the snake's eye, slides through its brain, and pierces the eyeball on the opposite side. Dropping the bow to the ground, I straighten and cautiously approach. The creature appears to be dead; the arrowhead and feathers of my arrow are completely still on either sides of its skull.

Without looking at Magnus, I pull out my knife and begin to saw through the snake's jaw. I make the slices long enough that, after I break the jaw, I can peel the upper and lower halves back toward the body. When the teeth are clear from causing Magnus any more harm, I position myself at Magnus's shoulders, loop my hands under his arms, and pull until his feet are completely out of the snake. Panting with exhaustion, I sit down and pull Magnus into my lap. I finally let my eyes drop to meet his. He says nothing but in a matter of seconds his cheeks are streaked with wet paths that glimmer in the last remaining sunlight. His extremities are still paralysed but he begins to tremble in my arms, and it is in that moment that I realize just how scared Magnus really is.

"It's okay," I whisper, cradling him against me and rocking him gently. "It's okay. I've got you."

I only sacrifice a few minutes to comfort Magnus before I sling my bow across my back, tuck my knife away, hoist him into my arms, and begin the long journey back to the shelter. Walking with his added weight is taxing, and it's difficult to keep a steady grip on him when he cannot hold on to me. I'm afraid I'm going to lose my way in the dark, but I use the moon's light to walk in a straight path in the direction my instincts tell me to follow.

I stop only once for a break to drink some water and by the time I start on my way around, Magnus is able to drape one arm around my neck. His head lolls limply with each one of my steps, but his eyes remain fixed on my face. I can't bear to look at him again; seeing him so afraid and vulnerable is like a knife to the heart.

By some miracle I manage to find enough familiar surroundings to make it back to the shelter. I carry Magnus inside and gently lay him on the ground, tucking my emptied backpack under his head and draping my jacket over his torso. I coax him to close his eyes and rhythmically comb my fingers through his hair. I cannot tell if he has fallen asleep completely but his breathing slowly evens out. I watch over him anxiously, not daring to fall asleep again.

Hours pass when Magnus suddenly shifts. My pulse quickens and I pull him into my lap, stroking his face over and over. His eyes peel open slowly and he lifts a shaky hand up to my face. I lean into his touch.

"Am I dead?" he asks, his voice scratchy.

I shake my head. "No. You're home."

His lips curve into a smile and his eyes glimmer. "Good."

I hug him tighter to me. "I'm sorry. It's all my fault. I fell asleep; if I hadn't this wouldn't have happened."

"I froze." Magnus holds my gaze. "You told me to run and I froze. I only got a few feet away after I snapped out of it. The snake bit me and then I was just so tired. My body collapsed but I could still see and hear everything. I felt it eating me. And then I felt you, watching me. And for half a second I was terrified that you were going to turn around and leave me there, but you didn't. You came back for me."

"I'd never leave you behind. We're allies."

His eyelids begin to droop. "I'm glad I picked you."

I brush my thumb across his cheekbone. "Go to sleep."

He's unconscious again moments later. Fear chills my blood, fear that the snake's venom will stop Magnus's heart at any second. I disregard the thought when I consider the motives of the Game Makers. Not one of them is interested in quick deaths. Surely the venom of a genetically modified snake would only be used to immobilize the victim, not kill him. I don't have an antidote that can save him if I'm wrong. All I can do is wait and see.

* * *

I'm on my back staring up at the roof of soil when Magnus's arm drapes over my abdomen. I turn my head and catching him smiling at me. He cranes his neck and nuzzles my mouth with his.

"You're all right," I say, relieved.

He grins. "Better than ever."

When he tries to position his body over me I grab his shoulders and gently push him back to the ground. "Your job right now is to rest."

He sticks his lip out in a pout. "I was looking forward to showing you my appreciation."

"Your job right now is to rest," I repeat, right before I flash a wicked smile. "And let me do all the work."

I cover his mouth with mine and coax his tongue to taste me. As he deepens the kiss I let my hands wander the panes and ridges of his chest and abdomen. I lift the hem of his shirt and grasp his hips with my hands, keeping him still while I pull my mouth away from his and kiss a trail down the curve of his throat. I move in a straight line down the centre of his chest before backtracking and licking at his nipple through his shirt. His gasp is an encouragement so I spend a bit more time biting and sucking at the bundle of sensitive tissue before moving on. By the time I've lowered myself to his abdomen, I can feel his arousal against my chest.

My embarrassment is replaced with uncertainty. I've never had any practice with what I am about to do, and it is not the thousands of viewers that is stopping me. This time it's Magnus. I'm not afraid of disappointing my family or any strangers; I just don't want to disappoint _him_.

Before I can lose my nerve, I kiss the skin under Magnus's navel as my fingers set to work undoing his pants. His breath hitches in his throat as I open the front and free the length of him. I bask in the glory of him for only a moment before I run my tongue on the underside from root to tip. Magnus's hips buck and he lets out a groan. I slide him into my mouth, struggling momentarily with the length of him until I relax my throat. Magnus moans as I pump him slowly. My tongue flicks against the tip and I gently scrape my teeth against him.

Magnus's hands find my head and he curls his fingers into my hair. I quicken my pace and he begins to thrust into my mouth, following my rhythm with his hips. His voice is tight when he calls out my name and I know he is close. I move my mouth faster, taking him deep in my throat. Suddenly his body stiffens and something hot spurts in my mouth. I swallow it all before licking Magnus clean and tucking him back inside his clothes. He's still catching his breath when I curl up beside him. We're both quiet for a long time.

"Alec? Thanks for not leaving me."

Once again, I hear something else trailing in the footprints of his actual words: _I love you._

I smile. "Thanks for choosing me." _I love you, too._


	10. Archangel

_**Hi, everyone! Sorry for the super long wait again! It's been rough. Thanks for all the support in keeping this story alive. Love you all!**_

* * *

I cannot move my legs. Both arms are trapped against my sides. The snake's body coils around me, ensnaring me in its deadly embrace. I twist and writhe in a futile attempt to break free. The snake brings its face toward mine and flicks its tongue across my cheek. As I jerk away it rears back and quickly strikes. The pressure at my shoulder jolts my entire torso. I stiffen as the snake lunges at me again, sinking its fangs into my shoulder. It pulls back a final time and spreads its jaws in a wide hiss. My blood goes cold to see liquid dripping from the curved fangs. Venom.

I realize this is a game. The snake is not going to crush the life out of me; it is only playing with me, savoring my fear. But now that it has had its fun, it is going to paralyze my body and eat me alive. Even though it is amusing to keep me alive, my death will be just as satisfying.

The snake shoots forward, fangs bared—

I sit bolt upright with a shout, throwing my arms in front of me to defend myself. Breathing hard, I blink away the fog of sleep and let my vision adjust to the darkness. Through my arms I can see a figure crouched in front of me, but it is not a snake.

Magnus's eyes are wide and his hands are raised in front of him in surrender. My sudden outburst has startled him just as much as it has spooked me. With a long exhale I wipe a hand across my face.

"Magnus—" I start.

"Shh!" he whispers urgently, raising a finger to his lips. "Listen."

My eyes wander as I wait for the mystery sound. Magnus's expression of excitement lulls my concern back to sleep. Just as I part my lips to question him I am cut off by the roar of cannon fire. Magnus's face splits with a grin, but I fail to see the reason behind his giddiness.

"Don't you know what this means?" he asks.

"I can go back to bed?"

Magnus scrambles closer and takes my face in his hands. "There are only three Tributes left!"

"Three what?"

Magnus groans. "Wake up!" He pats my cheek roughly and snaps his fingers in front of my face. He notices my poor attempt to stifle a yawn and cranes his neck forward, capturing my mouth with his. His tongue bursts inside my mouth without permission or hesitation, but I welcome it nonetheless. His teeth clamp down on my lower lip before he tears his mouth away and studies me.

Every inch of me is wide awake now. I reach for him, wanting more, but he clasps my hand in one of his and cups my cheek in the other.

"There are only three Tributes left," he repeats quietly.

"Three." A smile breaks free. "Including us."

"There's only one other person with us in this arena. We're so close."

"Yes. We are." Freeing my hand from his grasp, I scoot closer and touch my fingertips to the back of his neck. He shivers under my featherlike touch. My hand skims around his shoulder and trails down to the centre of his chest.

Magnus grabs my wrist. "We could go out and end this now."

I inch my face closer to his and whisper, "Or we could stay here."

He groans. "Alec, I want to do this with you, but not out of desperation."

"It's not desperation. What if something happens to you? What if something happens to me? I don't want this to slip through our fingers."

"Fear and desperation go hand-in-hand."

Expelling a long breath, I put my hands in my lap and look away. "I've never wanted this with another person, and I've never felt so wanted by someone else. I need you." I channel the pain of my words into my eyes and lock gazes with Magnus once again. "Don't you need me?"

"Of course I need you. I've wanted this so much." Magnus leans in to kiss me but I pull back.

"I'm not trying to manipulate you, and I'm not looking for a quick fuck. You're the person I've been waiting for."

"I'm the person you've been waiting for?" I nod and Magnus leans in again. "Then shut up and kiss me."

I do. Our lips collide so softly it brings an ache to my chest. Magnus slides his tongue into my mouth and groans. I nip at his lip and slide my fingers into his hair. Magnus rises to his knees, bringing me with him. Our bodies are not yet touching but I can already feel the heat of him. He holds my face close to his as his lips move from my mouth to the bottom of my ear, where he places a strategic bite that sends a jolt straight to my groin.

Emboldened and hungry for more, I grab the hem of Magnus's shirt and yank it up and over his head. I toss it aside and he reaches for me, but before he can make his grab I shove him back against the ground. My body covers his and I kiss him hard. One hand grabs my hip and the other curves around my neck, pulling me tighter against him. My fingers fumble for the clasp of his pants and I almost moan in relief when it finally pops open. Magnus sits up and lifts his hips to help me drag the material down his legs. As I yank his boots and pants free of his feet, I catch sight of something on his calf. I turn his leg and cannot hold back my gasp of horror.

"What's wrong?"

I point to the greenish-purple discoloration. It is about the size of my palm and surrounds two dark puncture wounds. Veins and arteries are clearly visible in the patch of darkening color. I do not need to rely on my minimal training to tell me that this wound is serious.

"How long has it been like this? Does it hurt?" I start to get to my feet but Magnus snags my wrist.

"Where are you going?"

"There are some herbal remedies that can help with this. We can't let it fester."

"Don't go."

"Mags—"

"Alexander, there's nothing we can do." The sharpness of his tone freezes me in place. "I'm not in any pain. I don't know if it will get worse, but if it's fatal I can tell you that the antidote is not in this arena. So stay with me."

"I can't sit back and watch you die," I counter.

"I'm not dying. I'm with you."

"There has to be something we can do."

"If you want to help me, stay with me." He fixes his gaze on me. "I need you."

After a moment of reluctance, I kneel down and hold Magnus's face in my hands. I place once soft kiss on his lips before wrapping my arms around his neck and pulling him against me in a tight hug. His arms wrap around me and he nuzzles my neck, planting a trail of kisses against my skin. When I start to relax against him, he lifts my shirt and pulls it off, dropping it beside us. I know exactly which parts of my torso require more muscle compared to Magnus's toned physique, but his eyes are transfixed on me, as if he is seeing new constellations in the night sky.

Suddenly the cool ground is touching the bare skin of my back, sending shivers down my spine. I part my lips eagerly as Magnus leans down to kiss me again. He positions himself between my legs and presses his hips against mine, gyrating gently. I groan against his mouth, wordlessly asking for more. His fingers skim down my stomach to the clasp of my pants. Deftly, he unzips them and slides them down my legs. Heat floods my cheeks when I realize just how exposed I am to Magnus now. When there is not a strip of clothing left between us, Magnus hovers over me and brushes his thumbs over my cheek bones. He kisses me gently and rests his forehead against mine. I feel the tip of his shaft press against me and my body automatically stiffens, but my muscles relax as Magnus whispers soothing words and presses his lips against mine. My hands glide down his body until they find the backs of his thighs, then I pull him against me, pushing him deeper.

Air pushes out of my lungs in a rush. My clutch on Magnus tightens, my fingers digging into his muscles. He holds me close as he pushes deeper. I bite my lip against the pain and bury my face in his shoulder. Finally, breathing hard, he stops and tightens his embrace. Just before my breathing can even out, he pulls his hips back slightly and rocks forward. The pleasure that explodes in my core makes me cry out. I whisper Magnus's name and he does it again. I beg him for more and he starts moving, slowly picking up speed and intensity. A groan escapes me every time he rams into me, and soon enough Magnus can't hold back his own cries of pleasure. He's moaning my name, pumping hard and fast.

A familiar sensation bursts in my belly. I'm close, and the realization makes me cry out. I'm so close but I don't want this to end. Magnus whimpers, too, and I feel him inside me. We're both ready. Magnus speeds up until we're both breathing hard, gasping too much to even call out to each other. Suddenly he hits my centre and I explode, crying out and arching off the ground. Magnus reaches his peak at the same moment and stiffens against me. He's still for a moment before he lowers himself onto me, his muscles quivering.

I am completely speechless and still out of breath, so I cup the back of Magnus's neck and pull his lips down to mine. I kiss him deeply, closing my eyes and losing myself in his scent and his warmth. Magnus pulls away and slides out of me; I wince at the uncomfortable sensation. My eyes follow him as he immediately starts to dress, and for a frightening moment I wonder if I've done something wrong. His smile is warm when he offers my clothes to me, and his hands are gentle when he helps me put them on. I am adjusting the shirt against my sweaty skin when his arm curls around my waist and pulls me to the ground. He holds me close and entangles his legs with mine, not speaking but saying everything with his eyes.

I let Magnus sleep. A long time passes but it is still dark when he stirs again. His drowsy gaze finds mine and his smile is lazy but striking. My index fingers traces the scar framing his eye.

"You never told me how you got this," I whisper.

He turns his face and presses a kiss against my palm. "It doesn't matter."

"You matter."

The corner of his mouth quirks up only briefly before his smile fades away. "My father gave it to me. I told him who I was, he got drunk, he took a swing at me with a knife."

"That's horrible."

Magnus shrugs. "He was aiming for my eye so I guess I got off easy. He told me having my name drawn for the Trial was punishment for my lust."

"My father told me not to disappoint him and to get the blood off my pants."

"He should be proud of you."

"He wanted my sister to live, and he wanted me to die trying to protect her. I don't think he'd welcome me back if I got to go home."

"Well, you'll always have Isabelle's love."

"My sister loved a coward who couldn't protect her."

Magnus is quiet for a minute. "Do you know why I left the Career Pack for you?"

I grin. "Because Jace didn't respond to your flirting?"

"I wanted to be your ally because I thought you were brave. The Careers were fearless because their arrogance made them think they were untouchable. But you. . ." He cocks his head. "You were afraid; I could see it. But you're also brave because you have something to protect, and it's never yourself."

I'm flattered by his words, but all I can croak out is, "I'm still afraid."

"Don't be," he whispers and kisses me.

I relax against Magnus as he rubs his hand up and down my back. My eyes close as I dream of just how many nights the two of us will spend together, alone and unafraid.

* * *

We devise our plan of attack from the same tactics of the Career Pack. The stream is the prime location for an encounter with the third remaining Tribute. Magnus has insisted that keeping me on the sidelines with my bow at the ready is an optimized plan of attack and an easy kill, though I suspect he is being overprotective and wants me out of any immediate danger.

It's after midday by the time we reach our destination. We each swallow generous portions from our water bottles, but neither of us makes a move for food. We're both buzzed with adrenaline. There's a slight queasiness in my stomach from the thought of letting Magnus go into combat with only a knife, but he only has to hold the Tribute off until I can get a clear shot.

Magnus bounces on the balls of his feet and rolls his shoulders. "You ready?"

I nod. "You?"

His confident grin is sexy enough to make me weak in the knees. "Always. As soon as you get a shot, you take it. Do you understand me, Alec?"

I know exactly what Magnus is asking and it makes a knot form in my throat, but I manage a weak nod.

"Hey." He steps forward, cups my neck, and pulls me in for a deep kiss. "I'll see you soon, okay?"

I bite my lip. "Looking forward to it."

Magnus winks and turns away, heading through the trees and undergrowth toward the stream. I hang back, searching for a spot with camouflage and a good vantage point. I find a patch of tall grass growing between two close thick-trunked trees. Crouched low, I settle myself into a comfortable position and ready an arrow. We could be stuck waiting for hours, days even, but I don't want to be caught off guard. I can see Magnus pacing by the stream. He turns in my direction once or twice, but his gaze does not linger on me. I cannot tell if he is unable to see me or if he's just trying to not give away my location.

I keep track of time by following the position of the sun. Several hours have passed when I suddenly feel the hairs on the back of my neck rise. I check behind me for an ambush before scouring the area surrounding Magnus. He appears to be on high alert, too. His back is to me, but I notice the straightness of his spine and the breadth of his shoulders as he pushes them back.

Suddenly there's a noise; it's too faint for the source to be near me, but it's loud enough to draw my attention. The point of my arrow follows my gaze as I look around. Nothing seems out of place.

"I know you're here," Magnus calls out, walking in a circle. "Why don't you show yourself?"

At first there is nothing, but then I catch the whispers of moving undergrowth.

"Magnus Bane," a soft voice says. "District Two."

Magnus's back is to me again, and I can faintly see a figure approaching him head-on. I can't make out any distinguishing features and I don't have a clear shot. Cursing, I debate moving to a better vantage point. To keep the benefit of surprise, I stay put.

"I heard you split from the Career Pack. Risky if you ask me," the voice lectures.

"Nobody is asking you," Magnus retorts. "But seeing as I'm alive and the Careers are dead, I'd say it was the right move to make."

I silently beg to Magnus to take a step to the side, or to at least turn his body so I can fire my weapon.

"I don't suppose we're alone," the voice states.

"I think the Trial has made you paranoid," Magnus scoffs.

The harsh laugh that answers him brings frost to my blood. I take a breath to steady my shaking aim.

"You're going to die, Magnus Bane."

"Prove it."

No sooner are the words out of Magnus's mouth than there's a blur of activity. I find myself struggling to differentiate between Magnus and the other Tribute. They're both too fast. Magnus places a well-aimed kick and the Tribute stumbles. He grabs the Tribute's arm and whips him around until the Tribute's back faces me. The second I pull my bowstring back, the Tribute grabs Magnus in a grapple that has them chest-to-chest. I have a shot, but because of their proximity to each other I can't guarantee the arrow won't hit Magnus as well. Cursing, I let the bowstring relax.

The Tribute crouches down to avoid Magnus's knife and throws himself into Magnus's stomach. The two go crashing to the ground, and it's all I can do to remain hidden in the grass and not jump to my feet. Someone cries out, but I cannot tell if it is my ally or our enemy. I almost exhale in relief when both jump to their feet. They swing their arms in arcs at the same time and the loud clang of metal bounces between the trees. They both recoil from the parry and Magnus claims the opportunity to kick the Tribute in the stomach. The Tribute staggers backward, trying to reclaim his balance. Magnus repositions himself and I finally have a clear shot; they're face to face and I can see both of them separately. I am for the side of the Tribute's chest. If the arrow doesn't pierce his heart, it'll at least puncture his lung. I pull the bowstring back.

Magnus forces the Tribute back with another kick to his stomach, and the Tribute only barely manages to stay on his feet. Magnus swings his arm, the blade of his knife aimed for the Tribute's chest. The Tribute's arm comes up and he grabs Magnus's wrist, halting Magnus's attack. Before Magnus can get free, the Tribute shifts his weight forward and channels it into the upward curve of his strike. My heart stops in my chest when I hear the Tribute's knife plunge into my ally's stomach. Magnus's gasp of surprise echoes in my head and my bow slips from my hands before I can even fire the arrow.

I tear out of the undergrowth and bolt over to the battleground. I seize the Tribute from behind and throw him to the side. He releases Magnus as he goes crashing to the ground. I yank out my own knife and crouch over Magnus like a savage animal ready to protect what is mine. The Tribute slowly gets to all fours, groaning, before standing straight. He turns and our gazes meet, but it is not the coldness of his glare that turns my body numb. It is the fact that one of his eyes is blue-green and the other is gold.

"Mark Blackthorn," I gasp.

"Alexander Lightwood," his cruel stare turns to one of surprise. "I thought you'd been killed."

I think of the harmless boy who'd been bullied back in Tribute Square, the same boy who I'd found hiding, frightened, inside a hallowed tree trunk.

"Clever, isn't it? Playing the part of the weakling," Mark says, as if reading my mind. "The looks on people's faces when I slaughtered them before they could lay a finger on me. Priceless."

"That was you," I choke out. "The first day. I was up in a tree and there was a girl. You stabbed her, over and over, and then you slit her throat."

"I knew you were up there, and I couldn't risk her discovering you. You'd let _me_ live after all, and no one is who they appear to be. She would have killed you, and I couldn't let that happen."

"Why? Because I spared your life?"

Mark shakes his head. "No. Because it had to be you and me in the end. You're the top-ranked Tribute of this Trial, Alexander. To defeat _you_ would be the greatest victory of all time. So I watched out for you as best as I could." His eyes flick down to Magnus. "I got rid of the last thing standing in our way."

Mark takes a step forward, knife in hand, and I snarl, "Don't you dare touch him!"

Mark stops, confusion sweeping over his delicate features. He glances from me to Magnus and back. "You can't possibly tell me you allied yourself with a Career?"

The disgust in his voice only intensifies my rage. "If you touch him again I'll kill you."

Mark turns up his nose. "I expected more of you, Alexander. That being said, I will not battle you in your state of grief. Meet me tomorrow at the cornucopia."

I watch as Mark turns and stalks off between the trees. Only when I can no longer see him do I throw myself on the ground beside Magnus and inspect him. There's a large gash in his abdomen and his clothes are already soaked with blood. All the color has drained from Magnus's face, and the beautiful yellow-green of his eyes has been drowned out by his dilated pupils. I search the ground frantically for anything that might help, but I know deep in my heart that I cannot fix this.

Magnus's fingers touch my arm. "I'm okay," he says, his voice shaky.

I press my hand over Magnus's wound and push down hard enough to make him wince. Despite the pressure, blood wells between my fingers. "Of course you are. You're perfectly fine," I assure him.

"Guess I got a little cocky," he jokes. "It's a Career thing."

I choke out a laugh, fighting the burning of my eyes. "I'm sorry, Magnus. I wasn't fast enough. It's a Twelve thing."

He presses his fingertips to my cheek. "Don't blame yourself for this, Alec. My death sentence was signed the moment my name was drawn for the Trial. But you. . . I always knew you were the one destined to win."

Tears slip free of my eyes. "Without you there's no reason for me to win."

"Alec." He brushes the wetness from my cheek with his thumb. "Treasure what we had. Don't carry what we lost."

I take his hand in mine, gripping his fingers hard. "Please don't go," I whisper.

He smiles weakly. "I'm not going anywhere."

I bend down and press my lips against his, kissing him with all the gentle passion I have in my soul. Magnus kisses me back, squeezing my fingers. Our lips are still touching when I feel his grasp slacken. I pull back and find Magnus's eyes still open, staring blindly at me.

"Mags?" I shake him, gently at first, then roughly. "Magnus! Don't go!" I pull him into my lap and rest my cheek against his hair, crying into the soft strands. "Please don't go."

I cradle Magnus's body, rocking him, until well after nightfall. By then his body has gone stiff and cold, not at all like the Magnus I'd known only hours before. The thought makes me sick, and I push his body away before I vomit on him. I wrap my arms around my knees and rock on the ground, emotionally exhausted but still crying.

The moon in shining brightly tonight and I catch a silver glint against the jungle floor. Numbly, I crawl forward and pick up Magnus's knife. My eyes dance across the razor-sharp edge, and suddenly I want nothing more than to make the pain stop. Clenching my fist, I press the tip of the blade against the middle of my wrist. I'm ready to make the cut, but my hand will not move. I don't want to win, but I want revenge. I want Mark Blackthorn to feel the pain I'm feeling. I want him to suffer, and I want to be the one to deliver his pain.

Knowing what I have to do, I numbly get to my feet and gather up my knife. My bow is still in the grass at the perimeter, but I decide to leave it behind. Clutching one blade in each hand, I look down at Magnus one last time before trudging into the jungle.

* * *

I haven't slept. The fatigue is wearing me down, tugging me closer to the soft beckoning of the earth. The sun has barely risen but I doubt I have any time to rest. Mark Blackthorn could show up at any moment, and he will find me waiting for him, ready. I drag my hand across my face and give my head a rough shake, forcing wakefulness into myself.

The clearing in front of the cornucopia is so peaceful; it's hard to imagine that so much death happened here. Twenty-four pedestals are visible in a semi-circle in the distance. I try to picture each and every face of all the Tributes. I'm looking at the one I'd been standing on when I hear footsteps behind me.

Mark stops a few feet from me as I rise. His eyes narrow as he takes in the shattered pieces that are me. "I didn't realize how much of an attachment you had to Magnus Bane."

"You killed my best friend," I say tiredly.

Mark shrugs. "He would have killed me."

"But why did it have to be _you?_ " I choke out. "I let you live."

"I suppose, just like Lucifer, I'm a disappointment."

I shake my head, trying not to sway on my feet. My eyes are swollen, my muscles are sore, and my mind is exhausted. Mark Blackthorn is a disappointment, but I'm not match for him.

"Come, Alexander. Let's give the people the finale they've all been waiting for."

I close my eyes and draw on Magnus's words for strength: _"I always knew you were the one destined to win."_

My feet are moving before my eyes open. I charge at Mark, and just before I can collide with him he side-steps out of my path and throws out his arm. His extremity catches me around the neck and I ricochet off, crashing against the ground. I groan and slowly get back up. I advance on him again, slower this time. The punch I aim at his face goes through air as Mark ducks and retaliates with his own punch to my gut. Absorbing the blow, I throw my leg in an arc and my shin connects with Mark's side. He lets out a grunt of pain but strikes back with a fist that connects with my mouth. The force of the blow spins me around and I land on all fours, spitting blood onto the grass.

"This is the best you can do, Alexander Lightwood?" Mark shouts. "No wonder your sister died."

Blood dripping down my chin, I get up and turn to face Mark. My feet carry me toward him and I watch him, expressionless. His eyes narrow but he seems unbothered by my approach. As soon as I'm close enough, he swings at my face again. My hand catches his fist in midair and I hook my ankle around his boot. I knock his legs together and watch him collapse to the ground. His eyes are wide with shock for a fraction of a second before he scrambles to his feet; I let him get up untouched. His hand whips to his side and he yanks his knife free. I only see the flash of the blade before he swings his arm up in a straight line and I feel a stinging sensation on my arm. When I look down I see a shallow slice tickling blood down my bicep. Undeterred I keep advancing on Mark. With a yell, he makes a clumsy stab at me. I easily evade the attack and snatch Mark's wrist, twisting until the knife falls from his hand. I pull out my own knife and plunge it into the fleshy part of Mark's shoulder. He screams as I yank it out but I feel no satisfaction in his agony.

I start to back away and Mark charges at me. As if by its own accord, my arm shoots out and I catch him by the throat. I reverse his momentum and use the full force of my body to slam him into the ground. He gags and coughs, clutching at his neck after I release him. Only after he catches his breath do I begin to walk away.

"Get back here, Lightwood!" Mark spits between coughs. "I'm not finished with you yet."

I turn in time to see him getting to his feet. He charges at me again, and this time I let him hit me squarely in the middle. We hit the ground hard and Mark straddles me. He punches me in the head over and over until the arena starts to blur. I don't try to fight him off, but instead keep my arms at my sides. He wraps one hand around my throat and applies the slightest pressure.

"Have you given up, Alexander? Do you _want_ me to kill you?" he hisses, disgusted. "You're more of a coward than I thought."

He tightens his grip around my neck and raises his other hand, clenching his fingers into a fist. He hesitates, poised to strike, perhaps to intimidate me. His fist moves only a fraction before I start laughing. His hand freezes in midair, fingers relaxing slightly. Mark's eyebrows draw together with confusion as the laughter that wracks my body surrounds him.

"You didn't even see it," I chuckle. "I used your own trick against you."

Mark is still confounded, and I take the opportunity to yank my hand out of my pocket and hit him in the abdomen. I push the weapon in deeper, give it a squeeze, and then yank it out. He touches the area where I stabbed him, searching for blood. I'm still laughing when I open my palm and reveal the snake's fang.

Mark is still straddling me, but he begins to teeter. "What did you do?"

I slide out from under him and watch with a cold smile as he begins to lose to control of his limbs. He tries to get up and run, only to fall back to the ground. I stalk him as he grovels in a feeble attempt to get away. His movements grow slower and weaker by the second. When he falls still, I nudge my boot under his hip and flip him over, none too gently. His mismatched eyes dart around wildly before resting on me.

In one smooth movement, I crouch over Mark and straddle him, pulling out Magnus's knife. I twist and turn it in hand, even being so bold as to run my finger over the edge.

"I wanted to take my time with you," I say, my voice distant and cold. "I wanted to make you feel pain, to cut away pieces of you one by one. I really could have had a lot of fun with you." I glance down and catch Mark's gaze. The fear in his eyes is real; he knows he's lost. "I wanted you to bleed. I wanted you to suffer. But then I realized something." I stab the knife into Mark's chest, right into his heart. A jolt goes through his paralyzed body, and when I give the knife a twist and yank it out, his eyes roll to the back of his head and he goes slack. "I just wanted you fucking dead."

Several minutes go by of me staring numbly at Mark Blackthorn's body. Suddenly a cannon goes off, scaring me enough to bring my arms up to defend myself. I jump to my feet as a voice booms overhead: "Ladies and gentlemen, our victor for the seventy-fourth annual Trial of the Angels!"

The sky bursts above me and a large black aircraft appears. The noise in itself is overbearing. My heart rushes in a panic, so I turn and bolt into the jungle. In my fright, I stumble over several roots and vines, and I can hear a squadron of Gard closing in from behind. As I leap over a particularly tall cluster of roots, I see a flash of white dart out from behind a tree. My momentum sends both me and the Gard to the ground. Immediately he tries to restrain my hands, but before he can get the chance I plunge the knife into his neck. He lets me go and falls face-first to the ground. I scramble to my feet and take off again.

Voices grow louder behind me. Something loud cracks through the air and I feel a sharp pain in my neck. Almost instantaneously I feel my legs start to grow heavy. Colors of the jungle begin to swirl and blur. I push through the dizziness, desperate to get away. My legs give out and my arms are too weak to catch me. Darkness finds me before I can hit the ground.


	11. Home

_**Hi, everyone! Due to some medical difficulties I've been out of commission for a looooooong time, but I finally finished my writing today. This chapter, though the final one, is extremely lengthy to make up for my absence. I'm very excited to get back to work on Obsession. I hope you all are doing well! Best wishes this holiday season! Much love!**_

* * *

A bird is calling out to me in the distance; its song is deep with sorrow. My ears focus on the sound and the more I concentrate, the clearer the sound becomes. The notes begin to separate into staccato beats with bursts of silence between them, and the pitches levels out into a single tone. The bird's voice is now artificial, as though it is passing through a machine and not a beak.

Unsettled by the false tune, I begin to peel my eyes open and try to discern my surroundings. Everything is hazy and intensely bright, enough to make me flinch. Where I expect to see the various green hues of the jungle I only see white, and the sweltering humidity my skin has become accustomed to is now an icy dryness that makes my flesh prickle. I try to lift my arms to wrap them around myself for warmth, but both of them only move slightly before coming to an abrupt stop. Confused, I look down and blink away the fog in my vision; some of it remains, but through it I can see thick white straps encircling both my wrists. They are attached to rails on either side of me. Have I been caught in someone's trap? I struggle against the restraints and find my movements sluggish, almost clumsy. Even my thoughts seem muddled as I try to make sense of my situation.

To my left I find the source of the rhythmic beeping I'd presumed to be a bird: It is a flat-screened machine with flashing lights, neon numbers, and a white line that peaks, dips, and goes flat at regular intervals. Abreast to the machine is a silver pole holding a bag of clear fluid, and a long, thin tube connects the bag to the back of my hand. This technology, too advanced for someone from District Twelve, can only be of the Capitol's making; but such things would never be allowed into the arena, which means. . .

Something shifts on my right and I turn to see a figure sitting in a chair. He is hunched over with his fingers interlaced in front of his mouth, and his knee is bobbing up and down with anxious energy. He says nothing but his gray eyes watch me intently. At first I do not recognize him, but his name comes back to me when I study his unkempt appearance and nervous ticks.

"Hodge." My throat feels raw and swollen, and my voice comes out as a hoarse croak.

He seems to struggle for something to say but finally manages a quiet, "Hello."

I shift in the bed, trying to sit up and failing. "Where am I?"

"In the Capitol's medical centre."

I nod and glance around. "Where's Isabelle?"

Hodge suddenly looks panicked and he can't seem to meet my eyes as he asks, "You don't remember?"

"Everything is weird and cloudy."

"They're keeping you sedated, so that's probably why your memory is impaired."

Hodge is terrible enough at masking his expression that even in my drugged state I can tell he is hiding something from me. "Hodge, where's Isabelle?"

He puts his hands in his lap and fiddles with his fingers. "She died."

My mentor's words sound harsh and abrupt in my ears, but my body gives no reaction. I know I should feel heartbreak and denial, but I am an empty shell. Even my eyes are dry. If anything, I feel a bit sleepy. In the back of my mind there's a spark of a thought; there's someone else I want to see. What is his name?

"Where's Magnus?" Catching Hodge's ill-concealed flinch I ask, "Did he die too?"

"Yes, he died too."

I nod and stare up at the ceiling, unable to do more than accept this as a fact. Had I been this apathetic in the Trial? Or perhaps the Trial shattered me enough that I can no longer feel anything, physically or emotionally. Or maybe I'd died and now my body is trapped in a place between heaven and hell, neither euphoric nor suffering.

"They said they will take the restraints off tomorrow if your mood levels out," Hodge says.

I tug gently against the straps. "Am I a prisoner?"

"You're a victor," he replies, but his tone implies the two are one in the same.

"I don't understand. . ."

Somehow Hodge knows that I'm referring to the restraints. "When the Gard entered the arena to retrieve you, you ran from them. When you fled you killed one of them. Do you remember? You stabbed him in the neck with a knife. You tried attacking the medical personnel after the tranquilizer wore off."

"I killed him?" I cannot envision myself as an aggressive, homicidal person, certainly not at the moment.

"The Capitol is not going to charge you with murder. They deemed your response appropriate, though tragic, given your traumatic circumstances."

"So what now?"

"You'll remain here until you've healed, then you'll be escorted to the Silent City, as is tradition. After that," he sighs, "they'll send us home."

"And then we go on pretending none of it happened."

Hodge jolts to his feet and the sudden movement is enough to make me feel dizzy. "I must go. You need your rest. Goodbye, Alexander."

I am silent as I watch him leave. As the door closes behind him I allow my body to relax further into the pillows behind me. I close my eyes and pretend the machine beeping beside me is a bird singing me to sleep.

* * *

My gaze is lowered but I am aware of Hodge coming to an unexpected halt as he enters my room. I can feel his stricken expression wash over me as he takes in my hunched body and my wild hair. Every muscle in my body is taut, waiting for some surprise attack. I must look distraught, frighteningly so, judging by the way Hodge slowly approaches. I wonder if I resemble one of the Forsaken, victorious tributes so destroyed mentally by the Trials they are locked away until they die.

"Alexander."

I cringe. Hodge's voice, though soft, is like cannon fire in my ears. Without the sedatives being pumped through my veins all my senses are amplified: sight, sound, even smell (the stench of cooked food lingering in Hodge's clothes makes me want to vomit). I'd overheard the doctor say something about PTSD and increased adrenaline, but I'd been too occupied trying to avoid his touch to make sense of the words.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, lowering himself into the chair. "I see they removed the restraints."

"I'm calmer when I'm not being held down," I say frailly.

Hodge observes me for a moment. "It gets easier. You'll never be who you were, but it does get easier."

I look at the man who cannot leave his house without having a panic attack, at the man who cannot sit still and have a genuine, unflinching conversation with another person, at the man who would rather stay shut away and hungry in one room than have a meal in another. My fingers twist into my hair again; I've brushed through and yanked the strands so many times that I'm sure they will start falling out soon.

Hodge notices the cart of untouched food pushed away from the bed. "Have you eaten anything?"

The mention of it makes my stomach twist. "I'm not hungry."

"You need to keep up your strength."

"Why?" Long seconds of silence pass between us as I glare at my mentor. "I saw them in my sleep. The people I killed. Clary, Camille, Isabelle, Magnus, Mark. I can feel their blood on my hands."

"You didn't kill Isabelle and Magnus."

"Maybe not by my own hand, but they both died because of me. This is my punishment."

"Every Trial needs a victor," Hodge murmurs. "The angels chose you."

Glowering, I swing my legs back onto the bed and curl into a tight ball, my back to Hodge. "They didn't choose me. They cursed me."

I hear Hodge get to his feet. "It doesn't get better, but it does get easier." With that he takes his leave, closing the door behind him.

I remain staring at the wall in the fetal position well into the night, refusing to talk or eat. The doctor, concerned for my health, administers a drug to help me sleep. Haunted by the faces of the dead, I fight it for as long as I can.

* * *

Imogen and Hodge are both waiting for me when I am finally discharged from the medical centre's care. After several days of self-deprivation of food and sleep, I'd forced myself to consume enough water, broth, and bread to keep the personnel happy. They were pleased to see that I'd started sleeping without the aid of drugs, or so they thought. Pretending to sleep at the appropriate moments was simple enough. To get far away from this place I did (or pretended to do) what was expected of me.

Imogen eyes me from head to foot as I approach. Her normally sour expression is now one of pity. She opens her arms and I reluctantly step into her embrace, keeping my arms firmly at my sides. "It's wonderful to see you, Alexander," she says, holding me at arm's length. "You're so thin."

I do not comment that she looks as well-fed and stylishly-garbed as ever. She hands me the article of clothing draped over her arm, and I unfold it to find a soft black coat with a hood. Contrasted with my hospital-provided shirt and pants, the garment seems too elegant as I slip into it. I zip it up to my throat and pull the hood over my head.

Imogen sweeps her arm to the side. "Shall we?"

I move forward to the exit and as Imogen falls into step beside me, her hand gently presses against my lower back, making me jump. She gives me an apologetic look and shoves her hands into her pockets. I keep my head down as we step outside into the rain. The cool damp wraps around my throat and makes it hard to breathe. Chewing the inside of my cheek, I press on and nearly leap into the waiting horse-drawn carriage. Once all three of us are settled, the carriage lurches forward into the street, the curtains drawn against prying eyes.

"Where are we going?" I ask as I stare at my feet.

"We're going back to the Institute in Tribute Square," Imogen answers enthusiastically. "There we'll get you cleaned up and fed, and then we'll go to the Silent City."

I raise my eyes. "I want to go to the Silent City now."

Imogen and Hodge exchange a glance. "Perhaps you should rest first and prepare yourself—"

"I want to go now!" I snap.

Imogen's lips press into a thin line and she manages the slightest nod. My behavior must come as a shock to her; angry outbursts were more of Isabelle's temperament. She pulls out a small device and makes a call, having a hushed conversation with the person on the other side of the line. When she finishes she offers a strained smile and stares so intently at the curtains that I'm convinced she is trying to see through them. Hodge, on the other hand, is watching me, paying particular attention to the way my fingers tap continuously against my knees. Unless my eyes are deceiving me, this is the most comfortable I've seen him. He says nothing, only inclines his head.

The carriage slows to a stop and I lift the corner of the curtain to peer outside. We're parked next to a massive building of polished stone. I feel insignificant just gazing at the enormous cherry wood doors. There is not a single person in sight; the Silent City is always emptied for a victor's private viewing, as is protocol. I sit back in my seat and let the curtain fall closed.

"Are you sure you're ready?" Imogen asks.

After a deep breath I say, "Let's just get this over with."

Both Hodge and Imogen brave the heavy rain to walk me from the carriage to the entrance, but they are not allowed to accompany me on my tour. I clench and unclench my hands several times before I reach out to give the door a push. Suddenly both of them swing open with loud groans and I see two robed figures holding them ajar. The two of them look identical, and their appearances are enough to give me a start. The shadows of their drawn hoods cover their eyes, but I can still see the grayish tint to their skin and the thick stitches that have sewn their mouths closed. It's all for effect, of course. Another Capitol trend someone from an outlying district would never understand.

I gingerly step past the Silent Brothers and into the Silent City. The doors moan as they are closed behind me and the Brothers shuffle soundlessly down the hall until they both turn and disappear, one to the left and the other to the right. I hesitate before following them to the fork; there I stop and glance in each direction. At the top of the stone archway on the right are the numbers '1-73' glowing in white-blue light. Through there I know I will find seventy-three years' worth of Trial highlights: The most impressive arenas, chic Ascension outfits, memorable deaths, unusual weapons, and, of course, the names of every Tribute in history.

Disgust roils in my belly. A victor is permitted to stay as long as he or she likes, but I'm only here to stay the minimal amount of time it takes to pay my respects. I pass through the open doorway with a '74' blazing at its peak. The first portion is dedicated to the construction and detail of the arena. The lights overhead are dim and there are screens everywhere; I am drawn to one with a camera floating around the all-too familiar jungle. I see the cornucopia and the area surrounding the stream, but I quickly turn away when my mind changes the color of the water to dark red. My feet carry me past hundreds of lifelike, moving holograms of all the plants in the jungle. There are displays for each of them that describe their uses and whether or not they are poisonous, but I pay no heed to any of them; they are of no use to me anymore.

The next showroom is a giant exhibit of all the tribute outfits from the Night of Ascension. Faceless mannequins wear each ensemble, and all of them are encased in their own glass case. Beside each case is a hologram showing pictures of the tributes in their garments. Everything is arranged in the order of the Districts, female tribute then male.

The fourth case steals the breath from my lungs. Everything, from the red tie tucked into the black vest down to the black shoes with red laces, is distinguishable. In the hologram Magnus is holding a drink in one hand, the corner of his lips curved upward in a grin. Taken before the Trial, his hair is longer in the hologram so I am only able to see one eye, but it is enough to make my heart twist. Gasping for breath, I stumble farther down the hall. My feet force me to stop at Izzy's display. Her beauty is frozen in the hologram, along with the life in her eyes. Ripping my gaze away, I hurry into the next room before I can look at my own display.

Awaiting me are more waist-high cases. All twenty-four of them contain a replica Trial backpack, but not all the velvet linings are covered with items. Most of them have water bottles, some of them have matches or trapping materials. One display contains only a backpack. I refuse to look at the rest.

The next room is the darkest. Twelve screens are embedded on each wall. I cautiously approach the first screen on my left and watch as it flickers from white to a colorful recording. The first of the three people I recognize is myself, straddled by Camille as Clary pins my arms on the ground above my head. The detachment in me turns to horror as I watch a struggle ensue, followed directly by me plunging a knife into Clary's throat. As soon as her body hits the ground the screen goes white for a moment before the recording starts over. I back away, feeling numb and tense at the same time. I do not want to relive any of these deaths, but there is a glimmer of curiosity within me that I cannot ignore. Keeping my eyes downcast, I cross the room to the screen directly diagonal to Clary's. The recording starts with me straddling Mark Blackthorn, my hands still wrapped around the knife embedded in his chest. I watch myself yank it out and get to my feet. The camera zooms in on me from a different angle and I'm now looking at a bloodied, blank version of myself I do not recognize. The screen goes white and starts replaying. I view it two more times before I back away and make my way to the exit.

The Silent Brothers waiting at the doors have barely pulled them open before I am pushing my way through. I am so concentrated on getting away that I almost crash into Imogen and Hodge. Someone's hands reach out to steady me but I hastily step out of their reach.

"Are you all right?" Hodge asks.

I do not answer, only turn my head away.

"Alexander, what happened to your hands?" Imogen gasps.

Confused, I look down and see that my palms are bloody. The fingernail-shaped wounds are still visible amidst the blood, but I do not feel any pain, nor do I recollect when this happened.

"I'm fine," I say, shoving past Imogen and climbing into the carriage.

They clamber in after me after a moment of hesitation, and once we are all settled we begin our long, silent journey back to the Institute. Even as the Silent City falls farther and farther behind us, I can still hear the screams and sounds of weapons ripping through flesh.

* * *

The street in Tribute Square is dark and desolate as I stare out the window. The lights in all the other Institutes have been extinguished, much like the lives that had once occupied them. The window's glass is cold as I press my fingertips against the clear surface. My eyes are searching for the broad-shouldered figure that had once walked the street. I find myself wishing I hadn't been so hasty to hide from Magnus that day; maybe then I'd have been able to enjoy more time drinking him in, committing more of him to memory.

A gentle, tentative knock at the door makes me jump. Clutching the front of my shirt, I turn and see Imogen step into my room. She's wearing a long-sleeved scarlet dress with matching red high heels. She clasps her freshly-manicured hands in front of her and smiles sweetly.

"You didn't join us for dinner," she says, not accusingly.

"I'm not hungry," I mutter, turning back to the window.

"You really should eat something. You're so thin."

"Did Hodge speak to you?"

She clears her throat. "He said you require my help with something."

"The woman who did my wardrobe for the Ascension, I need you to find her."

"What is her name?"

"I don't know."

Imogen chuckles, more exasperated than amused. "Without a name the chances of finding her—"

I glare over my shoulder at my representative. "You have connections, don't you? Find her."

A tic forms in Imogen's jaw; she is losing her patience with me. She draws in a deep breath to keep her temper in check and replies, "I'll do my best."

I say nothing as she leaves, closing the door behind her. I can only hope Imogen is prompt in completing her task. Tomorrow I will return to District Twelve, and there is much work to be done beforehand.

* * *

Imogen raps a leather-gloved hand against the black door before us. The two of us wait patiently as light footfalls approach. A woman opens the door, her face a question mark as she regards Imogen, but her eyes soften with clarity as her gaze turns to me.

"Do you mind if we come in?" Imogen asks.

The woman makes a welcoming gesture with her arm and steps aside to let us pass. I move to enter first, and before she can follow, I turn to Imogen and say curtly, "You can go now."

My representative frowns, her gray eyes narrowing. She inclines her head and heads back to the waiting carriage. The woman closes the door without comment and helps me out of my coat. She hangs it up and guides me into a large, furnished room. It is plain by Capitol standards, but I find it comforting. She lowers herself into one of the two silver-blue armchairs and motions for me to join her. I seat myself and chance a glance at her, where I find a warm smile waiting for me.

"Thank you for seeing me," I say quietly. She nods so I continue, "I need your help."

Her expectant expression fades and her brows pulls together in concern as she watches me struggle for words. I know what I want to say but there's a lump in my throat that I cannot swallow. How can I expect this woman to understand? What if she laughs in my face and sends me away?

The woman inches forward in her chair and reaches her hand toward me. I recoil at first, until I notice she holds her hand an arm's length from me, her palm up. I catch her smile of encouragement before my own shaky hand reaches out to take hers. She squeezes my fingers, and it's the first time I've been touched since the Trial that I haven't been repulsed or frightened.

"You can tell me," she whispers.

I've only heard her speak one word to me before, but her voice is not unusual in my ears, nor is it harsh like everyone else's. Her voice is soft and light like bells.

I take a deep breath and begin, "I'm not the same person that I was before the Trial. I need to be someone else."

The woman squeezes my hand again. "I can help you with that."

My shoulders almost sag with relief. "Thank you. . ." I start to say her name, only to realize I don't know it. ". . . Ma'am."

She grins and helps me to my feet. "Catarina will do."

I follow Catarina out of the room, down the hall, and up to a closed black door. She produces a key from her pocket and unlocks it, holding the door open for me to pass. It clicks shut behind her and she takes the lead once again, escorting me down a narrow staircase. Motion sensor lights flick on above us one by one as we descend. Catarina touches a light switch at the base of the stairs and the soft basement lights flare to life. My jaw drops as I look around. The walls are painted dark purple, accented with teal designs: loops, curls, swirls, and whorls. There's a brightly-lit vanity set against the far wall, the table peppered with various makeup containers. Next to it is a hair station, complete with a gleaming white sink and different styling tools. Catarina guides me to this area first, where I sit stiffly in the chair. Nerves and anticipation tighten my stomach; I'm glad I haven't eaten much.

Catarina positions herself behind me and catches my eyes in the mirror. "Are you ready?"

I take one last glimpse at my reflection and give a half-hearted smile. " _Ave atque vale."_

* * *

Imogen and Hodge are too busy gawking at me to say anything, and I'm too busy trying not to care. Neither of them have spoken a word to me since yesterday. I suppose it is my new appearance that has stunned them into muteness. Not that I mind; it takes all my concentration to try and break the habits that I've engrained into my body and mind since birth. The old me would have sat in this chair like a soldier awaiting orders: back straight, legs together, feet light on the floor. Currently I am trying to command as much space as possible: body reclined, knees wide, hands behind my head with my elbows akimbo. A great deal of my body's surface area in one display, and I try not to flinch under the stares of the two people sitting across from me.

The train begins to decelerate and I feel a nervous twist in my gut, though I try not to show it. Imogen pulls out a compact mirror to do a final check of her hair and makeup while Hodge grabs a handful of Capitol chocolates from the crystalline dish beside him. It's the last splurge of delicacies he'll have for a long time. I know I should be on my feet, preparing myself to greet the citizens of District Twelve, but my body weight holds me in my chair. The new me will wait until the very last moment to be ready.

The car gives a slight lurch as it finally comes to a stop. The blinds of all the windows have been pulled down, but I can hear an excited chatter through the train's walls. It's been such a long time since Twelve's had a victor; I can't even imagine what sort of celebration they have planned.

Imogen stands and offers me her hand. "Welcome home."

I shake it, a little too firmly, and push myself to my feet. Hodge brings up the rear as we walk to the train's doors. I don't even have time to take in a breath before they slide open. I am greeted by blinding light and deafening cheers. Imogen steps out of the car and waves like she is the one the crowd is waiting for, but when I step onto District Twelve's soil, the clamor dies. The suddenly silence sounds more like a gasp and, despite myself, I smirk.

My representative lowers her hand and glances around, unsure of what to do. I leave her behind and start my way through the gathered people. The throng parts for me well ahead of my path, as though the people do not want to risk an accidental touch from me. Every step I take I have to remind myself to keep my shoulders back, chin high, and eyes forward. I've made it halfway through the horde when I stop. Two people have stepped into my way and I feel an icy tug at my heart.

Maryse and Robert Lightwood gape at me, their eyes wide. My mother's hands are clasped in front of her chest as though she is praying. She takes one hesitant step toward me, then another, and another, until she is standing within reach. Her hand stretches out and I feel her cool fingertips against my cheek.

"Alexander," she breathes. Her eyes glimmer as she pulls me to her in a tight embrace. I hug her back for only a moment before gently pushing her away.

Robert advances on our little reunion and eyes me up and down. He says nothing as he wraps his arms around me; I keep my arms firmly at my sides. My father inclines his head, turns on his heel, and begins to walk off. I cannot say I expected anything less of my father, but there is a part of me that is still hurt by him. Before I can dwell too much on this, my mother takes my arm and leads me away from the crowd still gathered behind us. Instead of taking us down the dirt road to our house, Maryse turns in the direction of a gravel path. Neither of us speaks as we walk along the outskirts of Twelve. It is when we reach the top of a hill that I realize where we are, and a rusted archway with metal letters confirms it: 'Victors' Village.'

Massive houses stand guard on both sides of the cobblestone walkway. They are surprisingly well-kept for not being used in years, but there's something about them that betrays their uninhabited gloom. They are lifeless, like skeletons. I wonder which one of them belongs to Hodge.

Maryse tugs me along to the first house on the left. It is white, with glass windows and a red door. I think of our old home with its gaping, weather-worn wooden walls. My mother releases my arm and climbs the front steps, throwing open the door with great gusto. I step inside the house and gape at the furniture. The couches are pewter blue and look like they belong in a royal family's living room. All the tables are polished, dark-stained wood. There's even a bookcase filled with titles. Maryse's face falls when she notices my expression is stricken, not impressed.

"What's wrong?"

I shake my head and step further inside, peeking quickly into all the rooms on the main level. Robert, having beaten us here, is seated at the mahogany table in the dining room, an open book in front of him. There are only a few old, grainy pictures mounted on the walls, and I make a startling discovery when I look them over: Isabelle is not in any of them.

I face my mother and point at the photographs. "Where are the pictures of Isabelle?"

She cocks her head and smiles wanly. "You look so different."

Ignoring her, I find the staircase and rush up to the second level. There are three bedrooms: One is obviously my parents', the second contains all of my belongings from the old house, and the third is, aside from a bed and dresser topped with a vase of flowers, completely empty. Barely containing my rage, I stomp down the stairs and confront my mother.

"Where are Izzy's things?" I demand. She gives me a blank look, so I grab her arms and shake her. "What did you do with it all?"

"We couldn't keep it," she mutters.

"Where is it?" I hiss through my teeth.

"We left it behind."

Furious, I wrench my mother out of my way and start for the door. She is hot on my heels, shouting at me, "Don't you bring any of it here, Alexander! I don't want any of those things in my house!"

I slam the door behind me before she can follow me outside. I follow the gravel path back to the dirt road, where my feet carry me by their own memory back to our old house. It's empty when I storm inside, but it's evident strangers have been through here. The cupboards have been ransacked, and some of the homemade wooden furniture has been broken or chopped apart for someone else's needs. The map in my head leads me to Isabelle's room, where I find most of her belongings still intact. Her closet has been raided for clothes, and I leave what's left for whoever needs them. I search for the most meaningful items that I can carry back in one trip, and I grab the blanket on her bed that Isabelle crafted by hand and the book, one of her favorites, resting on top of it. As I yank the neatly tucked blanket from the bed, Isabelle's pillow is dislodged and falls to the floor. Left in its place is a small handmade stuffed animal. Heart hammering in my chest, I pick up the toy and look it over. I'd given it to Izzy when she was small, after I'd spotted the item in the Hob just before her birthday. I did not know she'd kept it all these years. My eyes brim with tears as I gather the three items into my arms, holding the stuffed animal closest to my chest. Just before I leave the house once and for all, I grab the most recent photograph we have of Isabelle and add it to my collection.

Maryse is waiting for me when I arrive back in Victors' Village. Her jaw falls open when she sees what I am carrying, but she makes no effort to stand in my way as I haul them into the new house.

"Alexander Lightwood!" she shouts. "You take those things back to where you found them! I will not have them in my house."

I whirl on her. "This is actually my house, Mother. Your presence here is a privilege." She has no response for that, so I carry Isabelle's belongings up the stairs to my room, where I can only hope they will be safe.

For the remainder of the day I spend my time alone shut inside my new room. It's new and unfamiliar, somehow too small and too large at the same time. As the sun puts itself to rest I pace around, too on edge to feel the first indications of the approaching night's fatigue. Darkness begins to fill the room; there is a new candle at my bedside but I have no inclination to leave my room in search of matches. Instead I gaze out the window. The moon has not risen enough to cast a glow over the Village, but across the street I can see orange light flickering in Hodge's window. I'm anxiously chewing on my fingernails as I stare at the house, but somehow I can almost feel the comforting warmth of the light seeping into my chest.

The knock at the door is quiet but it is enough to send me into a panic. I whirl around, my hand fumbling at my hip for my knife. The dreadful realization that it is not there strikes me even before I can remember that there is no reason for me to need it. I am breathing hard when Maryse enters, a glowing candlestick curled in her delicate fingers.

"What are you doing standing here in the dark?" she scolds gently, as though I am a child.

My first instinct is to apologize, because that's what I would have done before the Trial. But that isn't me anymore. Instead, I turn away from her and stare out the window again, choosing not to answer. I can tell by the way she clears her throat that she is ill at ease; the boy in front of her is not as pliant as her son.

"You didn't come down for dinner," she says, careful (and wise) to keep any accusations out of her tone.

"I don't want any food."

She is beside me now, but instead of looking out the window she is watching me. "You've lost so much weight. You need to eat something."

The next words fly out of my mouth before I can even think about them: "You lost your child, not your hearing. I said I'm not hungry."

Maryse recoils from me, stung, but my heart does not drum even one beat of regret. An awkward silence hangs between us; she's obviously waiting for me to apologize but I do not give her the satisfaction. I'm not looking at her, but I can sense the defeat in her expression. With a quiet sigh she turns and walks away. Before she leaves she shares the flame of her candle with the one at my bedside. As she closes the door she whispers just loud enough for me to hear: "I love you, Alexander."

I wait until her footsteps have retreated far enough down the hall that I can no longer hear them, then I walk to my bedside and extinguish the candle with a single breath, smothering myself in darkness once again.

* * *

The next few days inside the house consist of uncomfortable silences, awkward attempts at conversation, and sleepless nights. To escape the eye of my father and the hovering of my mother, I spend most of my time either shut inside my room or in the space outside the house. I used to sit on the front steps until the constant opening and closing of the door —Maryse checking up on me— got to be too much for my over-adrenalized body. Instead I walk around the Village by myself or spend time sitting on the grass behind the house, keeping my back to the eyes peeping out the window at me. I can feel myself wasting away in my solitude, but even on the rare occasions that District Twelve citizens stroll by the Village, I am more inclined to hide from them than even lift my hand in a wave.

One night, Maryse is so insistent on my joining them for dinner that she even reduces herself to begging. Perhaps it is my exhaustion, or maybe I can't help but pity the look of her with tears in her eyes, but I reluctantly concede to her wishes. She takes my arm and escorts me down the stairs to the dining room, though I feel more like I am being paraded. Robert's eyes widen in shock at the sight of me for only a moment. I tensely lower myself into my seat and stare at the plate in front of me heaped with a steaming piece of chicken and hot vegetables. The stench makes my throat close.

"Alexander agreed to join us for dinner tonight," Maryse says cheerily. "Isn't that wonderful, Robert?"

"Fantastic," Robert concurs with as much enthusiasm as he can muster, which isn't very much at all.

"It's so nice to have the family together again," she chirps without skipping a beat.

My teeth clamp down on the inside of my cheek at this woman's insinuation that our family is complete without Isabelle, but I keep my mouth shut and let the comment slide. Just this once. With an unsteady hand I pick up my fork and use it to push the vegetables around on my plate.

"Is there something wrong with your food, dear?" Maryse asks, concerned.

"No." I pick up a forkful of veggies and put them in my mouth. They taste like dirt.

No one speaks for a long while. Robert and Maryse finish their meals, leaving not a speck of food behind on their plates, but I cannot manage more than a few bites. Stomach turning, I set my cutlery down and push my plate away.

Maryse claps her hands. "All finished? How about dessert? I made cobbler."

My chair squeals against the floor as I push away from the table. "I think I'm just going to go to bed."

I almost make it out of the dining room unscathed when her small voice claws at my back: "You look just like him."

I slowly turn around. Robert is avoiding eye contact. Maryse has her face in her hands, but she lifts her head and offers the saddest smile I've ever seen. "That boy from the Trial," she whispers. "You look just like him."

She is referring to the work Catarina did on me that final night in the Capitol. The artist had cut and styled my hair to match Magnus's. Using an unbelievable invention from the Capitol's cosmetic masterminds, she'd managed to change my eye color from blue to yellow-green. There wasn't much Catarina could do for me in terms of height and breadth due to my malnourishment from the Trial, thus she'd thought her work was done. But I'd known a key element was missing. With the aid of an anesthetic cream and miracle healing topical spray from an emergency kit, I'd used one of the hot styling irons to replicate the scar on Magnus's face. Catarina did not condone the final step, but she'd allowed me to do what needed to be done.

"Are you trying to be like him?" Maryse asks, her voice quivering.

I stare her straight in the eye. "There will never be another person like him again."

Her chair nearly topples over as she jolts to her feet. "Where did the old you go, Alexander? I want my son back!"

"You'll never get him back!" I yell. "I died in that arena! Half of me died with Isabelle and the other half was murdered with Magnus. The Alexander you knew is never coming back."

"Just try," Maryse whimpers, crying now. "Just please try for me."

"The same way you're trying to keep Isabelle's memory alive?"

Robert rises from his chair, infuriated. "Alexander!"

"It doesn't seem like she was killed in the Trial, it seems like she never existed at all. And that feels worse."

Maryse chokes on a sob and covers her mouth with her hand. Robert starts for me, anger blooming in his neck and cheeks. "Don't you upset your mother any further, Alexander," he warns.

"Or what? Are you going to hurt me, Robert?" He stops in his tracks but I continue, "I can't imagine how badly you wanted to hurt me when you saw me kissing Magnus."

A tic forms in Robert's jaw. Maryse holds her hand out to her husband as if to ward him off. For the first time she is rushing to my aide. "That wasn't real. Alexander did what he had to do in order to survive."

For reasons I cannot fathom, I ignore Maryse and continue to goad Robert. "It wasn't an act. I fell in love with him. And _you,"_ I round on my mother. "Did you even mourn the loss of your children when we were put on that train, or did you rejoice because the odds were in your favour?"

Enraged, Robert lets out a guttural snarl and charges at me. Despite the lack of sleep and food, my reflexes are ready for him. Before he can even touch me my fisted hand strikes out, palm pushed outward. It connects directly with Robert's nose and I see and hear the satisfying crunch of cartilage beneath it. Immediately I back up and while he is still dazed I kick out with a strong leg. My foot hits Robert squarely in the chest and knocks him off balance. He lands on top of the table, but it cannot withstand the force of his weight and crumbles. Maryse screams as Robert falls to the floor, face bloodied and surrounded by the remnants of the table. She flies to the aide of her husband, holding his face and calling his name, but he is too stunned to speak a single word. While they are distracted, I race up the stairs and into my room where I collect Isabelle's belongings. There is nothing in my room that I want so I leave it all behind and hurry back downstairs. Maryse is struggling with helping Robert to his unsteady feet.

"I'm leaving," I declare, "and I don't want to see either of you again. Enjoy the lifestyle you leeched from the children that are dead to you."

With that I storm out of the house, slamming the front door behind me. I march across the cobblestone street and to the house diagonal (and farthest away) from Robert and Maryse. In the corner of my eye I think I spot Hodge watching the commotion from his window, but I pay him no heed. The empty house is unlocked, much to my relief, but it is lacking in a substantial amount of essentials. There are no stocks of food, which doesn't bother me at the moment but will be a problem soon. I wonder if the food rations from my victory will be delivered to my new location, or if I'll have to scavenge. It's also freezing in the house, but I'm too tired to attempt to make a fire. Worn out, I make sure to lock the front door before I curl up on the living room floor, wrap myself in Isabelle's blanket, and allow myself to tumble into a deep sleep.

* * *

At first I think a nightmare has yanked me out of my slumber, but as I come to I realize there is someone knocking at my door. My initial suspicion is that Maryse is standing on my doorstep in a feeble attempt to make amends, and my second guess is that it's Hodge snooping around in my business; the former is less desirable but the latter seems less likely. Cautiously, I get up from the floor, ignoring the cricks and cramps in my muscles, and approach the door. The bolt slides free and I open it a sliver, peering outside. The woman standing on the doorstep is not Maryse so I open the door fully. She is tall and slender with brown hair and blue eyes. Her facial features somehow strike me as familiar, but I can't put my finger on how I know her.

The woman stares at me with wide eyes; the color drains from her face as if she's seen a ghost. Not wanting to frighten her, I ask in a polite tone, "Can I help you?"

"You. . . You're Alec Lightwood?"

"Yeah."

The woman reaches into the pocket of her knee-length gray coat and withdraws a small envelope. She passes it to me with a steady hand. My name is scrawled across the front in black ink, but I hesitate before accepting it.

"I'm sorry. Do I know you?"

"My name is Amatis Graymark," she replies without smiling.

I nearly gasp as understanding slams into me. Amatis Graymark was the victor of her Trial years and years ago. I was young when I saw her teenaged face on a viewing screen; now she is a grown woman. My memory recalls the fact that she is from District Two, which means she is Magnus's mentor. Her reaction to first seeing me makes sense now; thanks to Catarina's alterations it is as though Amatis is truly looking at her deceased Tribute.

"I was instructed to give this to you when you won," Amatis says.

The envelope is sealed with wax. "What is it?"

"That's for you to know, not me." Amatis turns and starts down the front steps, but once she reaches the ground she turns and looks up at me. "I just need to make something clear: I was instructed to give that to you when you won. Not _if_ you won. When." With that, she walks down the cobblestone street.

Her words ring in my head. _When I won. . . which could only mean. . ._

"Magnus," I gasp and, still standing outside in the crisp morning air, I rip open the envelope and pull out a letter. Heart fluttering, I begin to read.

 _Dear Alec,_

 _I must express my deepest sympathies that you are reading this letter. Not for myself, you understand, because if you are reading this it means that I am dead. No, my condolences are for the loss of your sister, beautiful Isabelle. I am truly sorry that you must celebrate your victory alone. Although, if I get my way, you won't be._

Perhaps it is just my imagination, but I'm positive I can feel a slight pressure on my back, almost as though a hand is resting there. Immediately warmth begins to seep into my skin, spreading to the core of my chest.

 _There is no way for me to predict the complexity of our relationship once we are in the Trial. It's a knot right now, you see, and I intend to untangle it. I am going to do everything in my power to protect you, to make sure you are victorious. This is because I believe you are the only one who_ should _win, as you are the most human out of all of us. You are not determined to behead anyone who stands in the way of victory, nor are you willing to curl into a ball and wait for death. You are afraid, Alec Lightwood. Not of dying, not of killing. But of losing who you are. Maybe that is why I can't stop thinking about you. Or maybe it's your beautiful eyes._

 _Forgive me if this is not true, but I believe you are someone who loves to read. I am unfamiliar with your book situation in Twelve, but here in Two we have a library filled with ancient books, ones that were written centuries before the first Trial. A man named William Shakespeare has lived this long thanks to his writing, and I'm going to extend his life a little longer by sharing what I've remembered with you:_

 _'I follow thee and make a heaven of hell,_

 _To die upon the hand I love so well.'_

 _Maybe these are just the ramblings of some man who was unhinged and on drugs, but his work makes sense to me. Not always in my head, but always in my heart. If you are struggling, Alec, (though I hope with all my heart that you are happy) then I say this to you:_

 _' Doubt thou the stars are fire,_

 _Doubt the sun doth move,_

 _Doubt truth to be a liar,_

 _but never doubt thy love.'_

 _I hope we had as much time together in the arena as possible, Alec, because I want to know if you reciprocate my feelings for you. We met under unfortunate circumstances, and we won't get to meet under different circumstances, but circumstances brought us together, and I will always cherish that._

 _I have fallen for you Alec Lightwood, in love and in death. You must know that._

 _(With hope) Forever yours,_

 _Magnus Bane._

* * *

The project has taken me days to complete, but as I extinguish the final match and look over my work, sweaty and sore, I can't help but smile. My eyes are stinging, but I'm too tired to fight them back so I let them fall. I glance over to where Magnus's letter and an old photograph of Isabelle are sitting on the floor next to me, right where I needed them to be when there was no strength left in me. Now, I feel both powerless and unstoppable.

The rain has finally quit, so I decide to see this through to the end. I pick up the pieces of my project, one at a time, and carry them outside to the back of the house. On the brightest patch of grass I set them down next to each other, with a bit of space in between. When they are perfectly in line and to my liking, I kneel on the grass in front of them.

The bark on the front sides of the whole tree stumps has been cleared away. In the light-colored flesh left behind I've carved two lines of wording, and, to make them stand out as much as their lives did, I've burned the engravings to contrast against the wood. The second line on both memorials read 'Forever Loved'. One bears Magnus's name and the other carries Isabelle's.

Satisfied and warm in my heart, I position myself between the two of them and fall onto my back. The gray clouds overhead are breaking to reveal the blue sky buried beneath them. I smile and close my eyes. It is the first time I've felt safe and loved in a long time. This is where I belong.


End file.
